SOUL
by denverpopcorn
Summary: Meet Edward Cullen, boy next door, dreamer, and self-proclaimed virgin. Take a journey with him as he heads out in search of The One. AH. EPOV, E/B.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

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><p><strong>- Christmas mornings - Drive-Ins - Child Beauty Queens - Technicolor Dreams -<strong>

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><p>When I was 12, I got a BMX bike on Christmas Day, a pair of pajamas, two Star Wars collectibles – a Millennium Falcon and an Imperial Cruiser – and a note from my mother that only dad ever read, reminding him to pay the light bill on the 20th of each month and to make sure I ate all of my vegetables.<p>

That morning, she rushed down the stairs and the last thing I remember was that she wasn't wearing her dressing robe. Instead, she was bundled up in her gray traveling coat, the edges of her favorite skirt with purple and blue flowers, peeked out from the bottom. I remember that she sported her church hair, pinned up and secured with a head scarf. It was blue. She kissed my head and whispered something I never heard, so distracted I was by my new toys.

By the time dad appeared in the living room, calling for her, I was surrounded by wrapping paper and tinsel, undecided as to which of my action figures would command his spacecraft first. I bit my lip. Han Solo was, of course, my favorite and eventually won out over my Stormtrooper. By the time Han took a spin around the galaxy and picked up Princess Leia for a joyride, dad was at the door yelling for mom. I put down my toys and wheeled my bike out the door, past dad, where he stood with his mouth open like a gutted fish.

I thought nothing of it until later that night, after I called up Tyler Crowley and told him to meet me at our rendezvous point by the railroad yard. We pinned playing cards on our bike spokes and shot off to the satisfying _brrrooom brrrooom_ sound of our new wheels. We bisected the frozen river and crossed the bridge leading out of town. We rode until we hit a creek bed and made a fort out of icicles and packed snow.

When we got hungry, we headed back. The sun hung low and orange above the deadened trees; we had been gone all afternoon. I was going to ask mom to make me a snack – a grilled cheese sandwich, extra butter on the bread, and a mug of hot chocolate. Back in our neighborhood, Mrs. Crowley's voice rang out on the street, calling her kid home for supper.

I felt lucky, _lucky_, that mom didn't nag me like Mrs. Crowley. Mom never raised her voice. She was always so quiet, so still, that sometimes I'd forget she was in the same room. Sometimes I'd have to work extra hard to get her attention, turning her gaze away from an invisible point only she could see. It happened all the time, at the checkout counter, at the gas station, at the kitchen window. It was just how mom was.

When I got home, dad's eyes were red and the note hung limp in his hand. He sat in his Easy-chair staring blankly at the mess I'd made that morning. The kitchen light was off and there was no supper on the stove.

"Where is she?"

Dad curled the note in his fist and shook his head. The house was unbearably quiet and that told me everything I needed to know. Silently, I ran upstairs and slammed my bedroom door shut. She really wasn't coming back. Hours later, dad walked in with a red vinyl photo album full of mom, cradled in his arms.

"So you don't forget," he said, running a hand over the cracked spine.

"Was it me?"

He shook his head sadly, his mouth grim. He looked old. "No," he said in a voice full of pain. "No, son, it wasn't you."

She didn't leave us a clue. Not why she left or where we could find her. I couldn't think of any reason why she was so unhappy. We didn't do anything wrong. But a part of me knew, from her silent ways, that the signs were there.

"Then it wasn't you, either," I told him.

He didn't say anything else after that. Neither did I. That was all we had to say about it.

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><p>We donated mom's stuff to the local charity. We boxed up her pictures, save for a few we kept on the mantle, and threw out all of the food in the kitchen that only she enjoyed – brown rice, diet crackers, club soda, and canned asparagus. I never wanted to see another vegetable again.<p>

We lived in a small town just north of Buffalo, NY, where everyone knew everyone's business. People talked to me like I'd lost a parent to an incurable disease, and the pitying whispers became too loud for my ears. I learned to ignore them and duck my head when sympathetic hands reached out to pat my head. I continued to hang out with my friends even when the guys got sad around me on parent-teacher days. I'd joke around with them, hanging out, and playing until evening, always the last kid to go home. I didn't want to be treated like I was special.

But those days didn't last long. Because we weren't rich, dad missed the extra income from mom's job as a receptionist at the car dealership. He picked up extra shifts at the steel mill. I was 14 when I got my first job as a paper boy, practicing my aim at four-thirty in the morning until I had to go to school. After school, I tutored for more cash, a job I kept well into high school. The paper route went away after a near-miss with a garbage truck. Dad never wanted me delivering the news again. He kept a tight leash on me by giving me extra chores, depending on me for the income, and insisting I finish all my homework. I didn't complain because all we had was each other and, eventually, I didn't have time to play with Tyler and the boys.

It was a gradual separation, but it felt instantaneous. One minute I was hanging out at the drive-in with the boys as they teased all the passing girls, and the next I was daydreaming about riding a train, clear out West, past prairies and through mountain tunnels, always moving, always going, past the state line, to the end of the country, across an ocean, and landing on another continent. They'd snap their fingers to get my attention, I'd check in with them for a while until I'd lose track all over again. We did this until they gave up on me and I'd be left in the passenger seat with my slushy, watching them pour booze into the cups of the prettiest girls. I couldn't find the energy to join them.

I was 15 when it hit me. This is how it starts: the courtships, the dates, scoring bases and feel-ups at dances, the weeknights in the parking lot of the mini-mart and weekends cruising by the lake, secluded roads and condoms long past their due date, maybe graduation or maybe a kid, a job at the mill, or a chance at community college. It could go either way, the roads each of us could take; you could roll with the punches or set your own course.

I wanted to set my own course.

And as the years passed, I buried myself in books, movies, and music, keeping busy with schoolwork and tutoring until, suddenly, my head became the most interesting place in the world. Funny how time flies when your imagination becomes your best, most constant friend. Here I was, with a broken-up dad and a head full of percolating dreams and fancies. It was no wonder my friends lost interest in me as I did them. I was happiest in my routine, taking care of dad, working, and biding my time until I left.

It was understood that all of our hard work was to get me out of here at all costs.

When puberty hit and dad had to sign a release for sex-ed, he sat me down and gave me "the talk". I was hormonal, yeah, and I had kissed a few girls but what I didn't tell dad was that I was resolved to keep my hands to myself no matter how much they tempted me with their bubblegum breaths and dangerous pouts. I'd distract them, get them to talk and they would, about everything, gossip, fashion, their crushes, their nemesis', their parents and teachers. And I listened, and I nodded, and I smiled.

I had no real connection with any of them. I had a hand and I had lotion. I had plans. I didn't want to have sex and screw up my chances of leaving town.

That's how my thinking started out, at least, until I decided to stop thinking about it at all.

And, yet, it turned out that while I had avoided sex, all of its pleasures and trappings, there were those who thought about it on my behalf. It was bound to happen. I was good-looking and single; folks began to wonder about me.

To this day, I can't tell you why it was my luck to hear about it from a former child beauty queen. I had ignored the real world and buried deep my libido, safeguarding it. But there was more to it than that.

I didn't place a name on it, until the day I met Rosalie Hale.

I was 17 when Dad sent me to see her, to tutor her, he claimed. I know, now, that he had the best intentions, but I still cringe at the memory.

"I saw her mom at the grocery yesterday. Her daughter needs tutoring." It was common knowledge that I had a high success rate, so it came as no surprise when dad told me I had a new student.

We were eating breakfast. "What kind of tutoring?" He avoided my eyes, reading the ingredients from a Frosted Flakes box like it listed the winning lotto numbers. "Something about math," he mumbled. He sent me a fast glance, and I knew when he got up, rinsed his plate, and dismissed me, that that was that.

I knew of Rosalie Hale. She attended an all-girls school on the other side of the tracks. Every guy I knew talked about her like they'd made it with her. But I thought they were taking sport in empty bragging. The girls pegged her for a slut, but no one knew her as a friend. You would have thought that with her all-American blonde beauty, she would hold court on top of the hood of a convertible, surrounded by a crew of laughing jocks and cheerleaders. But she wasn't. When I spotted her around town, it'd be at a movie theater or a bookstore. Always alone.

I went after school one Friday and sought her out. Dad never specified the subject I was meant to tutor. Too tired to think about it, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and grabbed my bike out of the garage.

I rode across town, and turned north into the cookie-cutter housing of the well-off. The neighborhoods had winding streets, unlike where I lived. The lanes were so wide; you didn't have to swerve out of the way of passing cars. Every house had a lawn held back by a gate, out of sight from the street. Rosalie Hale lived in one of those beige homes with her single mom.

Their gate was open and I took the invitation to ride up the driveway, flanked by dried up, marble water fountains and wiry bushes. I walked my bike up to the front porch and leaned it against the rail. I rang the doorbell.

"Come in," said a raspy voice, too lazy to get up and meet me. I entered and poked my head in. Around the foyer, in the carpeted living room – with the lights off – and veiled by a blue cast from the TV screen, was Mrs. Hale.

"I'm Edward Cullen. I'm here to tutor Rose?"

Mrs. Hale lounged on the couch, smoking a cigarette; a lean leg swayed from under the belt of her bathrobe. Where the hell was I? And why was Rose's mom straight out of a bad black and white movie?

I'd heard that the Hales were divorced, and it was just Rose and her mom in a giant house. Past the wall-sized windows, a dull glow touched down on a tennis court littered with leaves. All of that space to be filled up with the thoughts of a lonely woman and her fatherless daughter.

"You're Carlisle's kid. He told me about you," she huffed out between drags of a cigarette. I expected her to get up and give me a Mrs. Robinson view of her thigh when she told me in an amused voice, "Go ahead on upstairs." She said it like a dare. I nodded and headed for the stairs.

Rosalie Hale, it turned out, was Little Miss Universe in 198-, starting at the tender age of three. In her honor, picture frames lined the wall up to the second floor – youngest to oldest. At the bottom of the stairwell was a headshot of a blue-eyed doll with rosebud lips, hair and bangs I've only seen on 50's pin-up girls. Every frame grew larger and every new photo revealed more of Rose's tiny-tot body – sitting crossed-leg in a doll house, or twirling a baton. In one, she modeled a bathing suit, her hand on the tie of the skirt as if she were one tug away from taking it off. She couldn't have been older than six in that one. Even her smiles were the same, every gaze ringed in makeup and long lashes.

At the top of the landing, the hallway split left and right. I took the side with the most doors and knocked on one with a pink star framing another beauty shot of a little girl. In it she blew a kiss at the camera, offering it up with her pudgy baby hands.

I wanted to run. Rationally, I knew Rose was older now, I knew the girl on the other side of that door didn't look childishly adult; she didn't make me want to shower with my clothes on. Not really. I tried to shake off the creepiness but I couldn't look away from the picture, the glint in her eye like she'd be happy to tell me a secret.

I couldn't say that I wasn't curious.

I stood there, nervous, unused to going into girls' rooms. Instinctively, I ran my hands through my hair, trying to tame it as if I were gearing up for a date. I wasn't, and that just made me all the more annoyed with myself.

"Are you going to stand out there like a creep?"

I jumped, feeling irrationally guilty.

"No," I called through the door. She must have heard me talking to her mom. I looked at the ceiling and wished I were anywhere else.

"So what are you waiting for?"

For some reason, I needed to be invited in, as if this life I was entering, this woman-child I was about to meet, needed to offer herself willingly.

"I was going to knock and –"

"Well, then knock." It was apparent her mother didn't mind the shouted introductions; the volume of a cop show echoed through the house and up the stairs; I heard gunshots. I knocked.

"Come in," she trilled.

I entered Rosalie Hale's room.

It was dark except for the glow of a lava lamp immediately across from me on her windowsill – a Yellow Submarine-themed coned lamp, complete with Blue Meanies floating through the lit liquid.

To my left, a door opened and light spilled out from a connecting bathroom. Rosalie Hale sauntered out with golden hair, wet from a shower, hung to the waist, hiding nothing more than her back and shoulders. She swung open the doors to a walk-in closet.

She spoke without looking at me, rummaging through her closet. "Give me a second. Let me put some pants on."

_Holy shit, I saw her pubes._

Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting for the Twilight Zone part of our competition, Miss Rosalie Hale. She moved around like I wasn't gaping from across the room, heart hammering in my ears like I was underwater. Quickly, I fumbled an apology and turned around to face a wall. I placed my head on my arm like I was counting down for hide & seek. I didn't come here for this.

A low chuckle. "It's okay, I'm almost decent."

"You could have been decent before inviting me in." My voice sounded like a squeak toy and I gulped, trying to regain my senses. In seconds, she threw me for a loop. No amount of extra cash seemed worth my discomfort.

She laughed, delighted by my awkwardness. It irritated me. I decided I'd just get out of there, as slowly and quietly as I could. I moved toward the door with my eyes squeezed shut.

"I'll just get out of your hair," I mumbled.

When I opened the door, two twin yells paralyzed me: "Get back here" and "Rosalie, where are my meds?"

I didn't dare open my eyes. I was in no-man's-land, between a mother and her daughter, both dangerous and mad; it made me sweat.

Rose yelled out to her mom. "They're next to your cigarettes! By the microwave!"

Then she hissed, "Get back here." Rosalie won, and I drowned out her mother's cop show with a click of the doorknob. I kept my back to the door.

"You can open your eyes now, you know." I did as she said. She was fully clothed in a Smiths t-shirt and jeans. My whole body sagged in relief. She had a look of concentration, head tilted to the side. Her eyes widened like she just discovered something. I was a specimen pinned up against the wall. I squirmed and picked at my collar and that's when she relaxed. I had no idea what she was thinking, and it was only logical that I kept my mouth shut until I had more to go on.

Rosalie pointed to a spot near her bed. "Have a seat. Don't worry about mom. She'll tire out and pass out on her painkillers, anyway."

Like a chastised child, I took the closest seat I could find. I didn't pay attention; I sat on a large rubber ball. "My yoga ball," she said, bemused, while I balanced on it, holding my hand against the wall. I felt like a show seal.

She focused on me like she'd tuned in to Edward Cullen TV. What the hell did she find so fascinating?

I was the one who had just seen her naked and she acted like she didn't have a care in the world. In the thirty seconds I took her in, I spied her pretty chest and the naughty wink of her innie belly-button. I was coiled up again, ready to spring, out the door, out the window, through the roof, away from the vision of her tits. But I didn't want to run. Truth was, I was ready to get out of there, but a part of me wanted to know what she was all about. I figured I could really let it get under my skin or I could play it off, follow her lead, and pretend seeing a girl's naked body was the sort of thing that happened to me every day.

It didn't.

I cleared my throat. "Nice place you have here." I looked around her room and didn't see many books; mostly magazines. Pictures of her as a kid on stage lined the walls, and two dream catchers hung from a ceiling covered in glow-in-the dark stars.

"You were expecting me, right?"

"Yes, very much so."

"What?"

She smiled and nodded her head. "I said, you're right. I was expecting you."

"Oh, okay, good. If you tell me what subject you're having trouble with, I can get us started."

I smiled like I was giving us a pep talk. Dust it off, rub some dirt on it, let's move right along, erase the vision. Erase the vision. The bed squeaked (I had closed my eyes again) and when I opened them, she was cross-legged with a velvet box on her lap. She looked through its contents and pulled out a pouch and tobacco wrapping paper.

"Wait a second. Am I here to tutor you or not?"

She looked up at me like I said the first thing worthy of a response.

"Nope."

"Then can you tell me why I'm here? Why my dad said you needed tutoring? He said your mom told him at the grocery store – "

"It wasn't quite like that."

"What do you mean?"

"Your dad talked to my mom for five seconds. He waved, I think. Anyway, I talked to him."

I was confused. It showed on my face. "I knew he was your dad. He has the same Halloween-colored hair. It's eye-catching, you know. Anyway – "

"Halloween color?"

"Yeah. Dark, but orange-y. Not quite ginger but, oh, never mind. It's eye-catching, you know? Can you crack the window open? Watch the latch."

I did as she asked and cool air seeped in. The fresh air was a relief.

"I went up to your dad and asked about you – "

"How did you – "

"Let me finish. I asked about you, told him my name, and then I told him I was worried about you."

I was about to interrupt again, but she cut me off with a tilt of her head, daring me to pipe up. I was getting uncomfortable on the ball. She patted the spot next to her, on her bed. She was fully clothed and there was nowhere else to sit so I took her up on it. I sat at the very edge.

"I told him that my friends and I were asking about you. He was confused and gave me the same squinty-eyed face as you. I told him, 'I don't know if you've noticed, Edward's dad,'" she winked at me, "'but Edward's on his own an awful lot. The girls talk about never seeing him. We miss him at the drive-in. He's never taken any of us out. What a shame. What do you suppose he does all by himself?' Your dad's jaw dropped, ha, yeah just like that, just like you're doing right now. Funny, you are so him when you grow up. Anyway, I didn't tell him anything else cause my mom was ready to go."

"But…so, why…"

"Well, I did tell him to tell you I said hi. And I sorta, kinda told him you could tutor me anytime, in any subject. Then I left. And that was that, and here you are, like a little present. I expected you, but more like hoped for you."

Dad set me up. I couldn't believe it. I got up, ready to bolt, but turned around and flat out asked her. "He set me up? And you…" I paced. My mind was running around in circles. I knew I was alone a lot, but I thought keeping out of trouble was enough. Didn't he trust me? He wanted me to…what did he expect me to do here?

What did _she_ expect me to do? "You set me up, too," I accused.

"Excuse me?"

"What did you mean by walking out naked a second ago? You told me to come in and…was it funny to make me uncomfortable? Is this some sick game to you? You lied to my dad, we don't know each other." She gaped at me as I let her have it and it dawned on me that Rosalie Hale was no different than anyone else. She didn't care about anything but herself; it was no wonder I saw her alone all the time. At least in my case it was by choice.

"I've got better things to do." I grabbed my bag. As I turned to leave, I caught a pink tongue swipe along the edge of a rolled up joint. Who did she think she was?

"I don't want sex, if that's what you think. I honestly thought you were gay." She caught her words with her hand, as if it were too late to trap them behind her lips. Then she shrugged.

"What?"

"That's what they're saying about you."

That was it. "I'm not gay."

"No, you're not. I'm sorry. Don't leave. It was a small test. I was having a little fun, yes, but I was curious. I wanted to see for myself and, well, I don't have a problem with nudity, I thought it'd be fun. Honestly? I didn't think your dad would even tell you about me."

"But you hoped."

"Yes. I thought I'd see for myself, and I went for it." She shrugged, nonchalant. I never would have guessed Rosalie Hale had a prankster side under that cool surface. What else didn't I know about her?

"You can cut the bad-girl act. It doesn't suit you."

"What about you? Are you an act?"

"I don't know what you mean." Of all the people to ask me, I get it from an ex-child beauty queen who had moved onto exhibitionism, and was a pot-smoker to boot.

"Your dad's looking out for you, Edward. People are starting to talk."

I didn't care what people thought. I had my plans and staying away from girls got me closer to my dreams, but she didn't know that.

Her blue eyes wouldn't let go of me. "Oh, Edward, my guess is you are an act." Her voice softened. "This is no dress rehearsal for you, the good boy. I'll guess you're still a virgin. You get great grades, and do as you're told." She cocked her head as if she were looking into my soul. I gripped my bag, my jaw tight, unmoving, as if with one twitch, she would upend me.

In the end, she did.

"If a girl asks for your number, you give it to her, but she thinks it's for a date, and really, it's to go over boring English lessons or whatever. It's boring to her. Your friends don't call anymore because they all have girlfriends and you can't relate. You're smart and you're totally what every girl desires – sex on legs. So, you're not gay. I'm guessing you probably keep your hands to yourself all the time, afraid that maybe if you let them peek out of your sleeves, they'll get caught up in a force ten times stronger than you. Who are you, Edward Cullen? What's your act? What are you afraid of?"

She sank back into her pillows and smirked. She read me like an open book and just as she cracked me open, so did all of the intensity I'd kept locked up for years.

Was I really all of those things? Was I afraid? Was I hiding? It must have shown on my face, crestfallen.

She held her hand out and offered me the joint. For the first time since my mom left, someone didn't look at me with pity or curiosity. She looked at me like she understood me from the inside out.

"No more tricks?" I asked.

"No more tricks. I'm really sorry. I wouldn't have done that had I known you'd get so upset."

I eyed the joint, wanting to give in, to have someone to talk to. I scratched the back of my head. "So, no studying then? What do you want?"

"I just want to talk." She put the joint down, dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a hair tie. She put her hair up into a sloppy pony tail. Her face was naked of makeup and her fingernail polish was chipped. The little cracks in her composure, a world of difference from the pictures lining the walls of her house. "You're right," she confessed, "I don't know you and you don't know me. I don't have very many friends, Edward Cullen. No one like you."

She waved the joint at me again, expectantly. I had smoked pot for the first time right after mom left, but dad busted me when word got to him. I figured since he was the one who sent me here, why not? I reached out and grabbed it, skimming her fingers. She broke into the first genuine smile of the night and patted the spot next to her.

And just like that, Rosalie Hale and I lay on her bed, blowing smoke up at the glow-in-the-dark stars leftover from her childhood, and told each other our life stories.

Both of us had outgrown our friends. I was right: she was a loner, too. All the guys crushed on her, but none of them knew how to approach her. She was too experienced, too beautiful, and never easy. She was 17 going on 30, and smart enough to know it. With effort, we both could have had a spot with our friends, but neither of us cared about the same things they did.

Until that night, I hadn't realized that sex for me had become complicated. I had ignored the disconnect between my brain and my dick. "Like seeds that can't find ground," Rosalie Hale said to me. Thankfully, she understood me and didn't pressure me, or try to convince me that I was missing out.

"I've found phone numbers in my locker at school." I lit up and inhaled. "I don't even look at the name, I throw it away," I said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

She didn't ask me why I stayed a virgin. I thought I knew why, I was leaving for college; I was keeping my life uncomplicated. But I was starting to think that there was something bigger inside me. I simply didn't want it with just anyone.

"Edward, be yourself. So casual sex is not your thing; that's fine. That's honorable. But you're going to have to face a sex-filled world and do one of two things. One, you can own up to it, and when the subject comes up, as it always will, you can proudly call yourself a virgin. Like, 'Hi, my name is Edward Cullen and I am a hot as fuck, 9-inch-cocked-up self-proclaimed virgin."

We both howled at that. The dreamy weed made us burst into fits of wheezing laughter and arm slapping.

"Or, two, you can fake it," she said.

I snorted. I never said I was proud; there was no righteousness in my system. Sex was everywhere, sure; there was no hiding from it. I got it, everyone else was normal; I was not. I knew I was odd, but I didn't dress differently, I could carry a conversation. And so long as a girl was wearing clothes, I wasn't nervous. I was just me.

I wanted to tell her that, but I could barely form a sentence.

Rose spoke. "Everyone, everywhere, talks about sex like the weather, and you, with your…dear God, your beautiful face, and hair that women want to tug, you are the embodiment of their wants and their needs. How are you going to get past that? What have you done to those nubile young princesses who think you belong to them? And let me tell you Edward, they are possessive of you. I hear them talk. That's why I know about you. They want you."

Princesses, women, beautiful – her story was getting better and better. They couldn't possibly look at me that way. Except, if I stopped to think about it, some girls did have that droopy-eyed look like I was a piece of chocolate cake, warmed up, and a la mode. Suddenly, I pictured myself nude and in a sundae bowl. No way, that was too funny. And that was fantastic weed we smoked.

I snatched the joint from her, my face smug and cheery. "When did you hear about me? Go on," I followed the trail of smoke swirling overhead. "Tell me the tale of the great Edward Cullen."

She elbowed my side, pointedly. "Remember that summer when you streaked the public pool?"

"I was 15 and I didn't streak. Someone grabbed my shorts by accident. Before I could think, I ran out, buck-naked. I didn't see who it was, though. It wouldn't have been so bad, if the kiddie pool was on the other side. Dad had to fight to make sure I didn't get booked on child…what, why are you laughing?"

After Rose's laughing fit, she recounted all of the pranks played on me by the women of our town, all in the attempt to get me naked.

This was news to me.

There was the time at the drive-in when I took a leak in the bushes; someone flashed a light on me and I zipped my pants up too fast. That stung a little. Then the time at a party when I passed out – for the last time – on a stranger's couch and woke up without my shirt. Someone drew a big red heart with the word 'STUD' inside. My jeans were still on, but oddly, my underwear was missing. I thought it was one of the guys messing with me. That was the last party I had attended, no longer wanting to keep up with the crowd.

"Those were all girls?"

"I think even Mrs. Mallory got in on the action that night. The details elude me."

Every one got teased for something so I didn't think anything of it. It would be a lie to say I wasn't flattered, but to me these were old stories. Stuff like that didn't happen to me anymore, not since I had pulled away.

Sure I thought about sex. My body didn't know what to do with itself. But I didn't want it with just anyone. It had become second nature to turn girls down. Any time one came up to me outside of class, they never looked me in the eye. They _eyed_ me in a way that made me squirm. They expected something of me, and I didn't know how to handle it.

As it turned out, this perplexed more people than I could have ever expected.

Rose kept the light off and we smoked and talked for hours. The light of the Yellow Submarine lava lamp and the faded glow of the stars kept us company.

Rose told me a story.

"Once upon a time, there was a boy named E.C. who made all the girls swoon. In a small town with no secrets, where girls shared their conquests with friends, no different than boys, really, none of them could prove they had sex with him. In every girls' locker room, there cropped up a secret society of love-starved sirens, who set out like explorers to map a truth about E.C."

This story was no longer my own; I listened to Rose like an outsider, shipwrecked on an island, enjoying the scenes played out with a character whose features mirrored mine. I let her have her fun.

She told me, "They bared arms, glossed lips, and shortened their skirts. They were on a mission. The question: how could he, with the gorgeous ass and the easy walk, with the thick hair, and sun-kissed glow…"

I laughed puffs of smoke. The guy sounded like a tool, a Fabio. I wasn't ugly, but I was a tall and lanky, pale guy, really. Rose slapped my arm and hushed me, getting pleasure from her tale.

"None of the girls dared question it. Out loud. Such a ridiculous idea: was he saving himself? The girls would laugh. Is he or isn't he 1) gay, or 2) a virgin, or 3) of unmentionable asexuality. The plan was to find out which one it was. They set out to uncover the virility they knew existed, but hadn't had the pleasure to taste. They threw themselves at him with gusto – some more subtle than others – and for the rest of their high school years, E.C. was a dartboard for their sharp libidos.

But every plan failed, thwarted by his sweet personality, fending off each one politely, sending them off content and satisfied by the pleasure of his company only to realize, too late, that while he listened to their problems, not once did he respond to a sexual innuendo. He waltzed around their touches fluidly, passing one girl off to the next guy, never missing a beat. They were duped into feeling touched physically, when all he did was share his shoulder, laugh at their jokes, agree and sympathize, walking the line between consummate gentleman and perfect boyfriend. Their hearts and minds were left cherished, their bodies wanting. They had moved in to take over his body, but in turn, were sent home in the heady euphoria of existing in the orbit of a beautiful, sunny boy. It was almost just as good. Almost."

"How do you know this? Have you been stalking me?"

"You're not the only one who listens well, you know."

During Rose's story, I think I napped, in and out of dreaming. This poor loser, how sad he sounded. Would I have been his friend? I traced the patterns of Blue Meanies thrown up on Rose's wall, and sank deeply into her story of this guy who was oblivious to the women circling, skirting the fringes of his consciousness. I didn't see myself like that. But when I put my face on him, I caught glimpses of her story ringing true like an out of body experience.

I stared up at the glow-in-the-dark sky of her ceiling while she told me in a faraway voice that we were more alike than met the eye.

As if in a room all by herself, she told me about her early years as a child beauty queen. She laughed about fooling judges with her smiles – she had a good dozen for every competition – and so it was a twirl here and a curtsy there. Do-si-do with a cowgirl hat to stage left, and a baton between fingers at stage right, caravanning with her entourage from one competition to the other. Props and costumes took up their own seats in the car with her mom-manager and stylist.

The stars on her ceiling gathered above me, linking a string of lights over a stage and there, in her bouffant glory, pranced Little Rosalie Hale in front of black-velvet curtains, wearing a wide open smile and eyes as round as silver dollars.

"If you winked," her tinny voice told me from the stage, "the male judges would give you an extra point, but be careful." She shook a finger at me. "The female judges didn't like that. No sir, not at all." She twirled and giggled in a sequined leotard, and danced to her own laughter.

Off stage, she continued, she had no friends while the moms were around. "It was their competition, more so than ours. If you met another girl and wanted to say hi, or gossip about your favorite teen idol, you had to do it when our moms sat in the audience, between performances."

She stopped talking and sighed. Little Rose pouted sadly as she sat at the edge of the stage, forlorn, gazing out into an empty theater. "No one speaks to me now. Look out there, at the audience. You can't see them; it's dark. But they want you. Every one of them wants you to smile at them, to do a trick and give them a show. It's not even about you. It's about them and all of their dreams and desires wrapped up in a pretty bow that they are simply _dying_ to touch. That's you and me."

The spell wore off and the real Rose spoke softly, hesitant. "But we can be friends now."

I understood, finally, how lonely she must feel in this big house with a head full of wisdom, a lifetime of being the center of adult attention. When her glamour shots came back at 13, no amount of make-up could cover up the "awkward setting of my new teen-age face. I'm lucky, I know, walking the halls in school. I don't look the part, but in competition, you needed to have that 'never touched' look."

I turned my head then, and took in her profile on the other pillow, regal and pretty like a figurine. I could never imagine her face to lack beauty, even the show-stopping kind. She had it.

"It wasn't enough," she said as if she'd heard my thoughts. "I was done anyway. That broke my mother's heart. All I ever wanted to do was please her, and I did, for a short while. But I wanted to play, and this may sound silly," she turned her body to me. "But my head, my scalp, hurt from having my hair pinned up all the time. I was walking around with migraines all day. I never told mom about it, but she always prided herself on saying, 'My Rose always has the option. If she wants to quit, she can do it at any time.' Then she'd turn to me so hopeful. 'But you love it, don't you Rosalie?' So one day, I took her up on it. It never occurred to me that she was bluffing. She cried when I told her that I was done and wanted to go home. Dad had already left."

"My mom left, too."

"I know."

All this melancholy talk dampened our buzz, and I asked her to show me some of her moves. Gladly, she got off the bed and walked across her room in her t-shirt and jeans, mimicking the ballet poses she learned. I pictured her twirling to the sad tinkling of a music box. For all her talk, Rose missed the life. She missed the stage.

I was glad Rose had found me; she had an energy and vibe unlike anyone I'd met. I could see her fast becoming my only friend, and a shameful resentment hit me for wishing she were a guy, a buddy I didn't have to fend off as she curled into my side and ran her hand up and down my thigh.

I was growing hard.

I took her fingers and laced them with mine, giving her hand a squeeze. In the darkness she whispered, "You're the real deal, Edward Cullen. The real deal." I didn't feel real, as I lay there, silently willing away my boner.

We would become friends over the summer, figuring out who we were and who we were meant to be. And we had a kinship neither wanted to sacrifice to sex just to be like everyone else.

Rosalie Hale didn't lay waste to my dignity. She cultivated it.

* * *

><p>I left her in her bed, asleep, and snuck out of her house, got on my bicycle and rode through the slumbering town, away from her neighborhood, onto the main drag. I got home during the coldest hour of the morning, before the sun had its say, and put my bike in the garage. I entered the kitchen where Dad was foraging in the refrigerator for food. He was up early, dressed for the early-bird shift at the mill.<p>

He hadn't called to check in on me. Not that I was a wandering kid – by now I understood why he sent me to Rose. She had made him doubt me; I didn't think she meant any harm. It was him I was pissed at. I watched him under the fridge lamp, checking the deli meat suspiciously.

"It's fresh," I told him. He jumped.

"Hey." He glanced at the clock above the stove. "What time is it?"

I shook my head. He knew. "I think the whistle's about to go off in an hour." I stepped over and grabbed all the fixings for a sandwich. "Lunch or breakfast?"

"Breakfast. I woke up hungry. And two for lunch, if we have enough meat. I'll go to the store when I get off my shift."

I set out the bread and worked on our sandwiches. He sat at the table with his coffee. I was bone-tired, but working on the weekends meant a longer shift for dad which meant I could stay up and fix him an easy meal.

"Leave cash." Our grocery list was on the fridge. "I'll go to the store and stock up."

"Alright."

I hadn't forgotten about Rose and dad's role in our unconventional introduction. "Besides, you never know who I'll bump into there."

"Yeah?" His tone: it brooked no bullshit, he knew.

I packed his lunch bag and handed it to him. He was reading the paper, the Lifestyle section. He never read that. He was a Sports, Op-Ed, and Front Page guy, in that order.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" he sighed.

"Why did you really send me to Rose's place?" I still couldn't say it, much less believe it. "To get me with a girl? To…what, did you expect her to be the one to…shit, dad. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to be happy."

"I am."

"I want you to hang out with your friends, go to movies with girls, worry about prom dates and...Jesus, kid. You know, I'm not here half the time looking out for you, and when I was your age…"

"When you were my age, you were already a dad."

"I was 19."

"Two years, okay, let's split hairs."

"Is that it? Is this about your mom?"

Why did he always have to bring her up?

"No. I don't have some kind of weird complex, Dad. Or should I say, Dr. Freud?"

Dad fingered the handle of his coffee cup. I'd never seen him unsure. He was figuring out what to say. He never did that. "I'm not sure if you're scared or just need a shove. But I don't want you holding back or thinking you need to prove something. I see how the girls look at you, how you avoid…" He cut himself off.

Dad was lost. He was looking out for me, I got that, but I was too exhausted from all the sex talk. I just wanted to close my eyes. After a silence, he spoke. It was careful, halting, and not at me, but at the floor.

"You know Peter's kid? The one who's a preacher for the non-denominational on – "

"I'm not gay!"

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm not ready." This was going to take longer than I wanted, so I gave him the Reader's Digest version of what I had only just figured out that night.

"It feels like, if it's this awesome, special thing everyone goes on about, then how awesome would it be if it was with 'the one'? It'd be like Nigel's amp going to 11. It'd be as if no time passed between the Star Wars trilogy. It should be fireworks, right? The ultimate!"

He still had a funny look on his face, but at least he was trying to figure it out, like I was a damn Rosetta Stone. I had to put it in terms he'd understand. "It would be as if the Bills won a Superbowl."

He smiled. Wide.

"You really believe that?"

"Sure. Why not? Look, I'm not unhappy. Do you see me moping around? Don't I smile and hang out with your poker buddies? Yeah, I'm on my own, but that's just me. I don't mind being alone. Hell, soon I'll be off to college."

His smiled dropped a bit, but his eyes were still bright.

"And who knows, maybe I'll find someone there, but didn't you ever just wish that it were easier? Clearer?"

He wasn't getting it.

"I'm holding out. There's the right one out there for me and…I'm holding out. There's no one here that does it for me. Like it or not. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I can't be that guy…"

He got up and collected his lunch. He had to go. "Kid, you really believe that." It was a statement. "You really believe that there's only one girl for you?"

He made it sound like I believed in UFOs. I smirked. "You believe that picture of Elvis at the gas station? The King pumping his own gas?"

"Don't get testy. Forensics concluded it was real." He smiled, having lost the battle. "Okay, I get it. I shouldn't have judged your choices, especially...especially when they're noble." He palmed my neck and looked me in the eye. "You're a good son. Your mom would have been proud of you."

I hated that he kept bringing her up. I hated that he still loved her.

As much as I wanted to throttle him and tell him that ma was never coming back, to get over it. As much as I wanted to scream how much I hated her for all the love I used to hold, he was still my old man. He stuck by me and I by him. I could do no more than let him be. If he wanted to believe in her, then so be it.

I couldn't fight him any more than I could fight what was inside of me.

My nod was small, but it was big enough for him. "Next time, let's bond over something else. I'm beat, Dad."

He chuckled, turned me around and shoved me toward the stairs. "Go. Hit the sack."

I climbed up the stairs and looked back. I watched my dad put the food away and clean up the mess. He turned off the kitchen light and headed out the back door carrying his lunch box with him. It was the first time I wondered if he would ever stop being lonely.

* * *

><p>In bed, I opened the window and let the breeze work over me. I was too exhausted to sleep.<p>

I wanted to let go of the day's stress, and I couldn't get Rose's body out of my mind. Amazing how much detail I absorbed in the span of a few seconds – the s-cut of her back, the mole on her hip, the light hair between her legs.

I touched myself and a breeze tickled my ear. I wanted to let go, set loose on the wind a wild howl. I was scratching the itch raw so I wouldn't have to think about it again. Rose's face sank below my belt line where I was burning. I squeezed my eyes shut, silently asking her forgiveness, and then I stopped worrying long enough to come in giant, heaving spurts all over my stomach.

I promised myself to never picture that again. I wiped up.

I turned over and my head didn't hit the pillow when I heard the first faint strains of Dad's alarm clock. He must have kept it on snooze. I got up and went into his room to turn it off.

I passed his bed, always made, and a glint of light caught my eye. The moon shone through the drawn curtains and got tangled up on a silver chain hanging in front of his dresser mirror. Mom's charm necklace, the one he bought her that Christmas.

I had lied to dad. I didn't want to tell him that I was terrified of ending up like him. Lost and pining for a woman who didn't love me. He didn't give up hope that she'd come back to us, to him. Not me. I had bottled up what was left of my love for her and locked it away.

I left his room and got back into my bed.

I would do this, I said to myself. I had been doing it, all this time. I had been building up my life's philosophy this whole time; there was no need for me to balk from it. This was who I was.

It took a stranger to pull it out of me, to make me think about it, put a name to it. I was holding out, alright. I had a downright crazy, crazy desire. I didn't want to get my heart broken. I wanted to believe in the impossible.

I wanted a soul mate. I wanted someone to unlock the giant ball of love I kept reserved in my heart.

All I had was a dream that somewhere, I'd find a girl who would love me fiercely and never let me go, hug me and mean it, unconditionally. I had to believe that she was out there and that I was saving myself for her and only her.

When the time came, she'd never second-guess me. She would have reason to love me back.

I allowed myself the words as I drifted off to sleep: _soul mate_. Finally, my body sighed on the bed, ready to get pulled under.

For the first time since mom left, I dreamt in color.

* * *

><p>AN:

S.O.U.L (Sketches Of Ultimate Love) is a labor of my love. It took me five months to arrive at this chapter after way too many false starts. This one's what I call a "road-trip fic" simply because we have one destination, and yes, we're on the road a lot. I think this chapter sets our course. Thanks to Write On Time and Immortal for making this pretty for me and pushing me. This concept started as an O/S, but faireyfan had to ask all of these questions and after so many drafts, I realized we were talking about a WIP. Thank her for this first chapter. She saw it before I did. A, thanks for being in the passenger seat and keeping me collected.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

><p><strong>Locker rooms – <strong>**Darwin – Summer Nights – The Falls – Goodbye, Stranger**

* * *

><p><em>Go go go go go go<em>

I crashed through the heavy, metal doors with my body weight into the muggy afternoon. I ran as fast as I dared, bobbing and weaving through the crowd. School had just let out; the final bell was still ringing.

_Shit._

I heard her shrieks punch through the din, yelling for me to stop.

I avoided crashing into a group of girls by the skin of my teeth. I apologized, righted myself on a trashcan, swiveled, and started off again, pumping my arms, and sprinting toward the parking lot for dear life.

There it was, my getaway car, idling curbside, its blonde driver held together by a cigarette and piercing blue eyes, cool as you please. She looked out into the crowd of students indifferently.

_Look this way Rose!_

I stumbled and almost slipped on the rain-slicked pavement when Rose finally saw me. I pointed a thumb over my shoulder, my eyes terrified, my heart drumming like a monkey on the bongos. The piercing wail was gaining ground.

Rose caught on, flicking her cigarette out the window and popping the gearshift into drive. I silently thanked her for reaching over and unlocking the door as my sneakers squeaked to a halt on the sidewalk.

I opened the door and scrambled in, panting. "Go, go, go, go, go!"

Rose's eyes bugged out of her head.

"Is that Lauren Mallory running after you? Wait...why is she tucking in her shirt?"

"Please, just drive! I'll explain later."

"What the hell were you up to, Edward?"

I looked into the side mirror and Lauren Mallory barreled toward us, now fumbling into her jacket. Wow, kudos to her for multi-tasking while running.

"I thought you said you weren't into Lauren."

"I'm not," I said, frantic that we weren't driving. "I accidentally walked in on her in the girls' locker room and I think she thinks it was intentional. Now, please for the love of all things holy, just drive!"

Rose pulled out of the parking lot and nearly sideswiped a truck. I slumped in relief as Lauren's waving diminished into a tiny dot in my side mirror.

Rose cackled and snorted until tears streaked her makeup.

Dammit, it wasn't that funny.

I explained that Lauren Mallory had held a candle for me since I was 13. At least all the other girls got the hint, but never persistent Lauren. And it happened that she was the worst person to accidentally bump into in the girls' locker room.

"What the hell were you doing in there?"

Once we were on the highway, I strapped in. Rose was gunning it, and I wasn't sure if she was a speed-freak, or if she was running on my adrenaline fumes.

"I think someone switched the name plates on the doors and I wasn't paying attention."

My head flopped back on the headrest and I squeezed my eyes shut. "I was walking with my head down, reading this book I just checked out." I dug in my backpack and pulled out _The Origin of Species _and showed it to Rose. "I thought I'd hit the head one more time before our road trip."

"Road trip? We're just going into the city. It's only, like, 15 minutes. Can't you hold it?"

"I don't have to go; I just like to be prepared. Anyway, the locker rooms were on my way out the building, the sign said, 'MEN', one thing led to another and, boom, there was Lauren, getting dressed. Let's just say she wasn't decent."

She was humming a tune, shrugging into her shirt when she busted me trying to make a quiet exit. "I think she clapped."

"She thought it was an open invitation?"

"She didn't even button up her shirt properly before she yelled out my name, and then ran after me. It was petrifying!"

"Didn't you apologize? You should have just stopped, told her you were –"

"I would have, but I was too busy running."

"You can't run all the time, you know." I nodded. Rose was right, it was an honest mistake; I'd have to tell Lauren that I wasn't trying to seduce her by cornering her in a locker room like a pervert.

I sighed. I was already losing interest in the fiasco. I watched the scenery whizz past. We were on our way to see a movie, a gory slasher flick that promised to practically bathe the audience in geysers of blood. It turned out that Rose was a big fan of the genre like me. I couldn't wait.

"So what's with the book?"

"What?"

"Why were you so absorbed in your book? It's far from light reading. Whatever happened to comic books or nudie mags?"

"You mean my copy of _JUGS_? What would my teachers think?"

"Gross, I was kidding."

"I know," I said, turning in my seat and pulling out the book, suddenly excited again at the page I was on before I caught sight of Lauren's bra, among other things. I needed to refrain from rewinding the scene, zooming in and out, playing it in stop-motion. Otherwise, I'd find myself staring down her cleavage the next time I saw her, and casually wondering why she needed the extra padding. I didn't think she had anything to worry about.

I blinked fast, shaking the vision.

I turned to the sentence that had originally arrested my attention. I read it to Rose. "_No one supposes that all the individuals of the same species are cast in the same actual mold._"

"Right, it's called evolution. I've heard of it. In fact, I'm aware of this Darwin fellow."

She chuckled at her lame humor.

"Listen, listen. Darwin says that there's variety in nature, so much so that each species struggles to survive – eat, drink, sleep, sex – all of that."

"Aha, _sex_, this is getting somewhere."

"So I was thinking – "

"Oh, crap."

"If these bits and pieces, the cast-offs, the parts that do not survive, that don't go on to evolve...what if they exist and we haven't 'captured' them?"

"I don't get it. Are you talking about missing link stuff?"

"Yeah, something like that. Look, I'm no scientist, but I find it fascinating that we claim to evolve all the time, every day, and every hour simply by the choices that we make to survive another day. And then, I just thought what about the choices that we don't make? What happens if we act against instinct? Do those choices get lost or do we gain anything by them?"

"Woah. That's heavy. What are we really talking about?"

We were entering the city of Buffalo, the high-rises no more formidable than the steel mills we left behind. Even though we were in the city, I still felt constricted, as if the weight on my shoulders was packing me down. I wanted her to understand, but I couldn't articulate it just then.

"You know I'm a virgin."

"Yeah, cause you're waiting."

"Exactly." It was stuck in my throat, my insecurity. What if there was something wrong with me? What if there was something missing inside of me? Instead of running from pretty girls, shouldn't I have turned around and welcomed a half-dressed Lauren with open arms like any hot-blooded guy would do? I shuddered into my shoulder, unable to shake how unappealing that sounded.

"You're worried that you're acting against nature?"

Of course, Rose would get straight to the point.

We were coming up on the theater, the marquee hung vertically over the sidewalk. I didn't answer Rose, too self-conscious to continue my thought process. The question made me squirm; I hadn't thought about it in those exact words.

I was a freak; I knew it.

"Hey. I think you're right."

"What?"

"I think that there is a place for you, Edward. You're built to…well, you're built to, um, attract attention. But you're right, you are a part of the human variety, and just as it's natural for you to attract women, it's equally _natural_ for you to avoid them."

Here I was trying to make my sexual status a special case. I was looking for justification, a link to the natural world that proved there was a possibility for someone like me to exist and _succeed_. But my thinking was off, and Rose's words not only made sense, but were comforting.

"I don't think that it's unnatural for you to cut yourself off from the mainstream, Edward. Make your own choices for your own survival. Not anyone else's. You don't need a book to prove that to you."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," I mumbled.

"Of course not. Is that a parking spot up there?" It was, and we found ourselves in a prime location directly in front of the theater. A giant poster for _Vampire Resurrection: Token of Blood_ was plastered next to the ticket window. The campy drawings of red-eyed vamps washed in the blood of decapitated townsfolk looked really promising.

Rose grabbed her purse. "You're a guy, always thinking in black and white." She took the book off my lap, closed it, and chucked it in the backseat. "You're at the top of the food chain, you can do whatever you want. Go with your gut. Now come on," she said, patting my knee and jumping excitedly in her seat like we were attending a live performance. "I don't want to miss the previews."

With that, she closed the book on the matter, literally, and got out of the car.

She made it sound as if being a virgin was like doing laundry – a chore, but a necessary task. I was no missing link, I supposed, and Rose sure as hell wasn't out of any mold I knew of. I followed but not before stuffing Darwin back in my bag. Maybe it wasn't such a big deal after all.

As we waited in line, I asked the one thing that had been bugging me for weeks since she and I met. "You don't mind being seen with me, right?"

Rose walked up to the ticket window without answering. I was about to repeat myself because her silence made me worry. When she turned around it was with a thoughtful finger to her chin, assessing me. "Actually, I think it's a perfect plan."

Why did girls have ongoing silent conversations with themselves? I never understood this. "Think out loud, Rose. What's a 'perfect plan'?"

She snapped her fingers in eureka. "Think about it. We pretend we're a couple, and girls like Lauren will get off your back."

"What do you get out of it?"

"They stop looking at me like I'm Hester Prynne."

"For being a beauty queen? Hester Prynne's crime was adultery."

"For being different. No one cares about the details."

I didn't know what to say. My stomach dropped imagining how ostracized she felt. I started to fully understand her proposition; we'd have each other's back, like partners in crime.

Genius.

"Of course, little lamb, I also don't want to leave you to fend for yourself."

And she liked to bust balls. That, I could do, too.

"Haha, you offend me." I feigned heartache now that we were smiling again. "You think it'll work?"

"Do you always worry this much?"

"Only with you around."

"It's cause you're _living _again. I think it'll be great, we'll give them something to talk about. Imagine the drama it'll cause. Besides, I'm not looking for a boyfriend, and you need a bodyguard, so we're cool."

Always the joker.

We headed in. I opened the door and signaled for her to walk in front of me, but she hung back. "You don't have to open the door for me, you know. We're 'dating' in name only."

I shrugged. If this was another boundary line, so be it. I went through the door first and headed to the concession stand, drooling for my standard licorice and popcorn fix, when I heard a _thwack_ behind me. I turned around. Rose peeled her face off the glass and rubbed her nose violently.

Oh crap.

"I'm sorry!"

"Shit, Cullen I meant _moving forward_ you don't have to open the door...damn, that stings!"

I was holding back a laugh. "Forget it." She walked to the concession stand. "Next time, just do what comes natural."

She swiped her nose lightly and shook her head. "You're rough around the edges. I have my work cut out for me. Now, please be a dear and buy your 'girlfriend' some JuJu Beans."

* * *

><p>Since that day Rose picked me up after school whenever we hung out. And I made it clear to Lauren that the locker room incident was an innocent mistake, which it was, having discovered that the janitor mixed up the signs during his rounds. <em>Talk about a thorough cleaning.<em> Lauren took it in stride after she hugged me and pouted that I was a big tease.

Yeah, Edward Cullen, a tease. I couldn't wrap my head around that one, but at least we sorted it out. In the end, my biggest shield from the Laurens of the world was Rose.

We spent the rest of the school year, and my final summer at home, in each other's company.

For the first few weeks, the guys patted me on the back and the girls kept their distance. And slowly the talk wound down, the congratulatory nods petered out, and we reached a balance. I remained the introvert without gossip and curiosity floating around me. People looked me in the eye, and invited Rose and I to their parties. We seldom went but it was nice to be asked. We were left alone, and only our parents knew that we were just good friends.

We went out, but we also studied and filled out our college applications. Sometimes we'd find ourselves at her house, where Mrs. Hale would make us dinner – whole feasts of pancakes, sausages, mounds of eggs, waffles, you name it. Breakfast for dinner was her specialty, and to this day, I can't conjure her without a cigarette in her mouth as she flipped chocolate chip flapjacks.

I took Rose to prom. I pinned a corsage on her dress, and accidentally stuck her boob. She yelped, swatted my arm and kicked my shin. I hopped around in pain while she smirked and called it even. We decided the flower clashed with her dress anyway and didn't go for a second attempt. On the way out the door, my dad palmed my shoulder and said, "I don't know how you do it, kid," and continued to the back of the house where his buddies dealt him a new hand.

I took pictures at her graduation. She strapped a flask to her garter under her robe. I never did see it. She no longer got naked in front of me, and I was grateful for it. We didn't test our boundaries; neither of us wanted that complication.

We looked the picture of young love to an outsider, but everything we did was powered by our friendship. It was love, sure, but not Valentine-love. She didn't want to be the center of attention any more than I did, so we shared the spotlight until the whispers died down. It was surreal to me that anyone would care, but I couldn't complain. I got a friend out of it.

That summer, we prepared for college. For me it was Florida State – I craved sunshine and green grass every day of the year. I wanted to nap under a palm tree.

Rose decided on the school of hard knocks. She didn't apply anywhere, insisting that her mother wouldn't last without her.

I didn't know that she never mailed her applications. All this time, she had already decided on what to do and didn't let me in on it until a month before I was set to leave. She was going to stick with her mom for the foreseeable future. She never saw it as an obligation, at least not outwardly. I think Rose blamed herself for quitting the stage, quitting on her mom. To make amends, she participated at the local theater that summer. Her mother bounced back after that. Mrs. Hale's calling – priming Rose for the stage – was within reach again.

Rose auditioned for the lead role in _Oleanna,_ and got the part. She worked hard for it, and on opening night, gone was the child beauty queen with the mega-watt smile, and on stage appeared a brittle college-student holding her own against her professor. Later, she punched my arm for sleeping through some of it, but what I saw was great because Rose was brilliant in front of the lights. She looked like she belonged. I went as Mrs. Hale's date and when Rose first came on stage; her mom's smile rivaled the house lights. She was proud of her. I thought, 'That's my friend up there and if she wants to, she could be a star. She will be a star.'

That was the closest I came to understanding Mrs. Hale's motivation for riding her daughter's passion. Sometimes you just can't be happy unless someone else is happy with you.

On lazy summer nights, we went to the park and sat at the top of the metal slide, its cold tongue unfolding behind us as we hung our hands over the rail. We'd talk about our plans for the future.

"New York." Rose chose the Big Apple as her 'one place where you would live, if you weren't allowed to leave'.

"Really?"

"It's bright and beautiful. Everyone is gorgeous even when they're not. Did you know you can get anything delivered to you? Cigarettes, donuts…I don't know there's more, the people, culture, a park in the middle, and cheap food, if you like it alfresco. I mean, it's like living on a desert island, Survivor-style, but with millions of contestants. That gets my heart racing."

I laughed at her. "You'd get squashed like a bug, a little blonde cockroach."

"I'm tough!"

"Sure," I said, patting her head. She ducked.

"What about you? Where would go?"

"Ah, I don't know." I put my chin on the rail. "There's no one place I want to be."

"That's not fair – I picked one."

"It's true. I don't want to live in a huge city all my life, but I don't want to be on a desert island, either. I want to see the in-between, you know? I want to hang out in small towns with long names and a tiny population. I want to go see the biggest rubber band ball, and I want to go where cars can't get to, and everything in-between that, too. I want to take a leak on a mountaintop, and I want to sleep on a beach, in the middle of sand dunes, and I want to jump off a waterfall. I want to be everywhere and talk to everyone."

"Wow. What about college?"

"Oh, I'm going; it's a starting point, though. I want to be anywhere but here."

"There's nothing to contain you, is there?"

I thought about my recurring dreams, and the girl that I loved there. I imagined a life spent searching for her. My heartbeat raced at the thought.

"No. Nothing can contain me."

* * *

><p>The night before I took the Greyhound bus to college, Rose and I drove out to Niagara Falls, where I jumped off a bridge to the sound of her scream.<p>

She was at my place, helping me pack the last of my stuff, when she threw a sock at me and announced, "Let's go to The Falls." It didn't take much for me to comply. There wasn't much left to pack, and her silence drove me bonkers anyway. We were sad, scared, excited. But a good part of me wanted to be on the road right away, wishing that the drive north was really the drive south to my real destination. It was only a thirty-minute trip to Niagara Falls, and Rose, slumped quiet in the passenger seat, hadn't met my eyes all day. I was going to miss her.

We parked and scoped out a spot far away from tourists, at the tip of Rainbow Bridge. We walked side by side, lost in our own thoughts. It was dusk. The mists rose up in curls, illuminated by rainbow lights. The power of the waterfalls vibrated under our feet. It was the perfect place to let your mind wander, unfiltered.

The ex-beauty queen and I never consummated our friendship. All the better, because hidden in the corner of my heart was a part of me that questioned my sanity. Rosalie could bring any guy to his knees if she wanted to. She could be anyone's fantasy, but she played that role for too long as a kid.

She huddled in her sweater, her blue eyes peeking out from the collar. I rocked back and forth on the soles of my feet, hands in pockets, trying to keep nostalgia at bay. I was leaving the next day, bright and early, and I didn't want to think about saying goodbye. We talked nonsense for a while and watched the moon rise over the cliffs. On that night, her smile stretched until it met her twinkling eyes.

She took my breath away. She took all my senses away.

Suddenly, I imagined us together, like every other newlywed romanced by the white billowing waterfalls. I imagined her by my side, teasing each other, laughing, lovesick. I imagined a wedding night, and the two of us wrapped up in our limbs, her mouth on me, and her lips a beautiful circle around my cock.

_Her lips around my cock_. Jesus.

The wayward thought punched my insides and my chest stuttered a beat, frightened, like waking up from a trembling nightmare. I wanted to shake that sentence out of my head. I walked to the other side of the bridge, away from her, before she noticed my fright. I held my breath, terrorized by my fantasy. I knew it was this night that brought it on. I knew that she and I were only, and would always only, be friends. She may be perfect on the outside, golden hair and skin the color of buttermilk, a body that I jerked off to just once, on the night we met, but never since.

I was a virgin, but I wasn't a dead virgin.

But we didn't have the connection. There was no getting in Rosalie's soul. Her gaze was missing the full measure of her hopes and dreams. It mirrored my own.

I startled when she appeared beside me. She gave me a reassuring smile. It was calm where we stood. I focused on the lights tracing the Canadian border. She turned to me, blissfully ignorant of my rogue fantasy. Her face was drawn and tired. I didn't want her to be sad.

The wind blew up a great mist out of nowhere. She gulped up a big wet breath, held it for a few beats, and let it go.

"You'll find her."

I laughed. She was having random thoughts, too. "What?"

"Your girl, your one and only, your star. You know. _Her._"

I knew whom she meant. It caught me off guard; we didn't talk about soul mates often. Rose would never admit it, but I think a part of her held out for her own mate, too.

"You think so?"

"I know so. A guy like you just doesn't go through all of this and not get everything he deserves. You're too good not to get the girl."

"It just…it has to happen. I can't shake it, like…like she's too real in my head for her to be a faceless dream." While Rose nodded her head, I had a terrible urge to keep justifying myself. I didn't need to, but I was about to embark on a new journey, and I didn't want to be wrong in this. I had to ask. I hated doubt, but I had to form the words and get them out.

"You don't think I'm a freak, do you?"

"Seriously?"

I swallowed, and immediately regretted asking. I nodded.

"I think you need to get over it. Don't look like that. I mean, get over this freak business. I told you, be yourself. Make yourself happy, Edward. So long as every choice you make is towards even a _chance_ of happiness, then do it. Don't hesitate. Do it." Her voice got desperately higher as she spoke, conviction set in her shoulders. "You. You will absolutely succeed in love, in everything you do."

And it hit me that it wasn't just me that needed to hear it.

"You, too, you know. You're going to find that guy who's gonna sweep you off your feet, make you his queen. He'll – "

"Stop." She turned away, exasperated. "I didn't say it for you to say it back."

Knowing her, she wanted to make this night about me, because I was leaving, starting something new. This wasn't just about finding love; it was about marking out a life that was important and fulfilling. She may have decided propping up her depressed mother was the right thing to do, but she wanted out as much as I did. Local theater could only get her so far; she was meant for more. She had as much potential as I did.

As she walked away, I yelled for her to stop. "C'mon, Rosie!" She halted and squared her shoulders, hating that nickname. I grinned. "C'mon, say it. You know it's true." She could hide her feelings behind that Fort Knox heart of hers, but I knew she was capable of conquering the world if she chose, and in doing so, finding her match.

She rolled her eyes, but that didn't stop me. We were friends, a team of outsiders, too much alike, and we survived the last of our childhood together. We were on the same side of this crazy life; I wasn't going to leave a man down.

I walked up to her slowly. "Say you'll be okay. Say you're going to rule the world one day. I know you will. Say that you'll find your heart's desire and you'll live your life like a romance novel one day, yeah?"

"You're a douche."

Typical.

"Tough girl. I bet you're not so tough."

"What are you doing?"

I had moved back to the bridge and looked over the rail. The fall, thousands of feet below me, looked fucking painful. "Say you'll be happy when I'm gone."

"No."

Stubborn girl.

"Say it." I smiled, my leg over the rail, lifting myself, inch-by-inch. "Or I'll jump." I was one leg throw away from careening over.

"I'll be fine when you're gone, dammit."

"You'll find your happiness, too, and not hole yourself up with your mom. You'll go to New York. Say it."

She was stressing out, looking back and forth for security that watched out for the suicide crowd, or garden-variety crazies like me.

"I'm going to jump," I warned.

"Dammit," I could hear the tremor in her voice. "Dammit, Edward, I swear if you…"

I released my weight in one fell swoop, jumping feet first to a wailed scream: "I'LL BE HAPPY, EDWARD, I'LL BE HAPPY, OH GOD, OH GOD, EDWAAAAARD! NO!"

I hopped back up from a drop, tuck and roll, dusting off my pants. I used to jump that ledge all the time for kicks. It used to piss off my dad. I was surprised it still worked since I could barely make out the concrete shelf protruding under the bridge. It was no wider than three feet before it sloped off steeply into the thundering water. Rose's face was the picture of fear and shock, bulging eyes, and a death grip on the rail. I really wanted to laugh.

Instead I tugged the hair that hung over the rail.

"'Oh, God, Edward?' That's more than what I was going for, but it sure had a nice ring to it."

"I hate you."

"Aww, c'mon. I was fooling around. See, you feel better already."

"Who said I wasn't? You didn't have to do that, you nut!"

It was getting cold, and I was damp all over. "Help me up."

"No!" She turned on her heel and left me there. I crawled under the beam on my belly. I hopped up and jogged over to her; my knees were Jell-O, and my body a jangle of nerves from the belated realization that I could have died had I missed an inch off my mark. I would have died to make Rose happy back then. I was riding on crazy.

"C'mon, I was kidding!"

Without warning, she charged at me and the force of her almost toppled me over. I hadn't prepared myself for violence, and frankly, I was afraid of Rose's right hook. But instead of a good pounding, she did the most unexpected thing. She hugged me.

"Don't ever do that again!" she wailed into my shirt.

"Hey." I smiled and tipped her head up. Her eyes glittered and she looked just like her namesake dotted up with dew.

Maybe it was the setting, maybe it was the fact that I almost killed myself and I was hopped up on adrenaline. Maybe I finally realized it was our last night together and this, for us, was our last chance – our one moment to give it a go, to see if our friendship bled into love. Maybe I needed to put it to bed once and for all. I didn't want to be left wondering.

I kissed her.

It wasn't sloppy, it wasn't rushed. I kept my lips closed and moved slowly, searching like a metal detector running across the promise of gold. There was none. I was surprised, frankly, but also relieved. We weren't meant to be. When I opened my eyes and pulled back, Rose's lips were still pursed and she wore a frown on her brow. Her eyes were opened, shocked.

The silence was awkward and telling. _Well, so that happened_. I had nipped that question in the bud and now I had to get us out of it.

"Um, you had something there…on your," I pointed to the general vicinity of her face, improvising as I went. "I just wanted to get it off for you…" with my mouth, I was an idiot. Thankfully, she went with it. She jerked out of her trance and stepped back.

"Oh! Oh, um, yeah. You get it?"

I coughed. "Yeah, yup." It was the weirdest conversation we'd ever had, and entirely unrelated to what had occurred. I had kissed Rose and we didn't care for it.

"We should go," she said as awkwardly as I felt, speed-walking to the parking lot.

"Yeah, I don't want dad to worry."

I took the car keys out of my pocket and Rose snatched them from my hand. "I'll drive."

I think she wanted a distraction, and I wasn't about to argue. _Keep talking, keep moving, and pretend that didn't happen._ We jumped in the car and Rose sped out of Niagara Falls like a bat out of hell, putting distance between our romantic doppelgängers and us.

I was the first to break. I laughed.

"Never again!" she said.

"Never again!"

* * *

><p>On the highway, we put the windows down. There was a chill in the air and it got colder the faster Rose went but we didn't care. It turned our cheeks pink, and I think we both needed to cool off from the kiss. I knew we'd get over that moment of lunacy in no time.<p>

She hummed in her seat and her straw-colored hair sprang loose, whipping and riotous. She looked like a badass even swaddled up in her sweater. It was a picture I'd never forget. She turned her head and smirked.

"Quit staring, jerk-off," she winked.

And just like that, we were okay again. "Turn on the radio," she bossed, "you're playing DJ."

I laughed and did as I was told. I scrolled through the channels and settled on a classic rock station, mid-song.

"My mom loves this song. She used to play it all the time. Turn it up!" Without waiting, she cranked up the volume herself and starting belting out the tune. "_Now I believe that what you say is the undisputed truth. But I had to have things my own way to keep me in my youth_." With both hands on the steering wheel, she sang straight ahead into an invisible microphone. "_Like a ship without an anchor, like a slave without a chain, just the thought of those sweet ladies sends shivers through my veins_…"

I got caught up in her silliness, urging her on with air drums while she kept to the lyrics. "_And I will go on shining, shining like brand new. I'll never look behind me, my troubles will be few._" I switched to playing the keyboard on the dashboard because every singer needs a backup band.

I sang the chorus in my best high-pitched voice. I sounded like a Bee Gee. "_Goodbye, stranger, it's been nice_. _I __hope you find your paradiiiise. Tried to see your point of view, hope your dreams will all come truuuue_."

She nodded in approval, smiling at our fun. I kept on, making up my own lyrics, "_Goodbye Rosie, goodbye friend. Will we ever meet again? Feel no sorrow, feel no shame, and tomorrow feel no pain_." As I sang, my voice caught on the words. I stumbled, suddenly overtaken by them. But Rose kept going, thankfully oblivious to me, and we picked it up as a duet, dancing in our seats and snapping our fingers.

The mood had shifted, we were okay again. More than okay. Adrenaline coursed through our blood, setting our spirits free, fit to fly with our kinship. I was excited once again to get going, to find out what life had in store for us. I didn't know what tomorrow would bring or where we'd be this time next week and that was the best part. The unknown beamed in front of us like twin tunnels of light.

We knew that in our pure states, we'd have a wild ride. We deserved it. We had nothing left to lose. We did have motion, we felt no pain. And we knew that we would one day meet again.

We sang the whole way home, our voices disappearing into the wind until our throats burned as bright as our full hearts.

* * *

><p><em>Goodbye Stranger<em> by Supertramp. Lyrics by Richard Davies and Charles Hodgson

_Oleanna_ by David Mamet

A/N:

Hi! Thanks for coming back. Please, please, do not attempt jumps off any bridge. There is no ledge by Rainbow Falls. :)

WriteOnTime ensures I don't make any corny references in this thing. She also gets credit for the "dead virgin" line - she knows her comedy. faireyfan is the proud auntie of this kid's heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Happy Birthday, Sar.

* * *

><p><strong>One Way Ticket – Moleskine Journals – Smoky Mountains – Girl of My Dreams – Emmett<strong>

* * *

><p>The next morning, dad and I were at the bus station. I paced in front of the glass windows, showcasing a line of buses idling outside, with a one-way ticket stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans.<p>

I still had fifteen minutes before I could board.

I was bouncing with energy.

"Will you stop making tracks like a junkie?"

I turned on my heel to face my dad. He was sitting in a blue plastic chair in the terminal. I smirked; he was tapping his foot, jittery. I wasn't the only one who was anxious, but for different reasons.

Earlier that morning I had hauled my suitcase down the stairs and found a big breakfast ready for me. I smiled at the bag of hash browns, the box of pancake mix, and the heat-and-serve bacon. Dad went all out. It was a meal fit for a few kings.

I pilfered a piece of bacon.

_Not burnt, way to go pop._

"Who's coming for breakfast?"

"Can't your old man feed you one last time?"

"I'm only gone for four months, before you know it I'll be back to turn on the oven for our turkey dinners."

"You always did have a mouth on you. Sit down and eat."

I pulled a chair out and watched him stir the hash browns. He put a midget-sized portion on my plate.

I turned to the counter. _Two bags of Ore-Idas!_

I was known to put food down like a linebacker at a buffet – my metabolism was peaking at 18 – and I knew I was at the front end of an impending growth spurt, but not even I could defeat the challenge in front of me.

"You know, Pop, I do get to stop on the road."

"Yeah, but you won't get a good home-cooked meal like this," he said, reaching into the microwave for the eggs.

I indulged him as best I could, but the truth was I was too excited to be hungry. I didn't eat much, afraid the butterflies in my stomach would run riot. I pushed my plate back and patted my belly.

"Rosalie not coming?"

Dad, I had a small suspicion, would miss her around here. She broke up the monotony of his bachelorhood and never took his shit.

"We said goodbye last night." I didn't tell him about almost killing myself in the Niagara River. I figured I'd save that tale for another day, when he was relegated to a wheelchair. And wasted.

"She's a good girl," he said, rising from the table and lifting my suitcase. I began clearing the table. "Leave the dishes. We'll call that your going-away gift."

In the end, he did give me a prized parting gift.

When we parked at the bus depot, dad placed a soft black, leather Moleskine journal in my hand. It submitted to my palm beautifully. "I noticed you wrote a lot. Thought you might like that for your trip."

I opened it up reverently. The smooth pages, empty and new, called to me. I ran my fingers over it; the pages were unlined. My favorite.

I thanked him. With his eyes straight ahead, he nodded, slapped the steering wheel, and said, "C'mon, you have a bus to catch."

* * *

><p>We made it just in time for a slow wait.<p>

Dad wanted us to arrive early. You'd think he was the one leaving. He wasn't one for goodbyes any more than I was. I was going to miss him too, but I was ready to let go. I figured the best way to pass the time would be to get him talking.

I lifted my chin. "What do you know about junkies?"

"Remember Eleazar's boy? He robbed the mini-mart. I remember when he was a little boy…I hear he's being treated, though."

"Yeah? I didn't know that."

He went on about the danger of drugs, that I should stay away. I promised to be smart about it. He threatened to punch me into the Ice Ages if I so much as touched any. It took our minds off waiting, and when he was finished talking about all the kids who weren't making it out of town, I thanked him again for my gift. I didn't think he knew it was the best gift in the world. I sat down for dad's sake, slapping my palm with the bound journal impatiently.

"You got everything? Your ticket? Money?" Earlier, he had given me a hundred bucks for the trip to Florida. We had agreed that I would travel light, and call him as soon as I got there so he could wire the rest into a bank account.

"Yup."

He looked at the buses lined up outside. A driver in standard-issue blue sauntered up to the bus waiting for me, and settled in his seat.

Dad looked at me. He looked worried. "We could have bought you a plane ticket, you know."

"What? And miss traveling with the salt of the earth? This is the best way to see the sights south of the border. The New York state border," I clarified before he thought I was going AWOL. "Besides, it'll be fun."

The truth was I wanted a road trip. I wanted to have time to process the fact that I was leaving home, and I wanted to find diversion in the company of strangers.

I was also getting anxious to find a good seat, but dad had to triple-check everything.

"And you have the maps, right? You can't be too prepared, son…"

"Dad, I have the map of Florida, another one of Tallahassee, and another of campus. I'll memorize them if it makes you happy."

"Don't get smart."

Right then, a bored voice over the intercom announced that it was time to go. We got up.

He put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me into a tight hug. I didn't want to get emotional in the terminal.

He smelled like deodorant and the bacon we ate that morning. I had a few inches on him, but it didn't stop me from one good squeeze. "We'll be okay, Dad."

I felt his nod on my shoulder. "Be safe."

"Yes, sir."

With that, we parted ways and I hopped on the bus, sitting on the side facing the street where I wouldn't be tempted to look back.

* * *

><p>When it came time to decide where I'd go to college, I had applied where they'd give me money and where I'd be far enough away to experience the road and still be close enough if dad needed me. I didn't want the sameness of New England or the distance of the West Coast. I wanted a cultural change as best as I could get without a passport. Florida it was. Not only was it entirely different from the gunmetal skies of Buffalo's intense winters, but from the brochures, I imagined it smelled differently, too. No smokestacks, all green. I wanted to be on the lawn in the picture, surrounded by a scantily clad student body.<p>

I pulled out my itinerary. Printed up in big, bold type were the times and transfer stops in big cities along the way – Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia were represented.

I opened my journal and fished out my favorite pen.

_August 15 – Greyhound bus, Southbound_

_10:15am_

_I can't wipe the smile off my face. This is not my poker face. I should stop smiling, make my face blank, like a top secret agent. _

_Blue seats, overhead lights, and quiet passengers. I'm the wide-eyed one by the window seat._

_I've been on this highway before, this leg of the trip. Giant Lake Erie, on my right, like an ocean, if you didn't know better. _

_Noon_

_The sky just cracked open over Cleveland. We're downtown, slogging through traffic, as the lunch crowd runs for cover, ducking under awnings, hurrying back inside their coffee shops, scurrying and dodging puddles, opening umbrellas in the instant pandemonium. _

_I strain my neck to see as far up as I can go. High-rises and high-rises, stretching the city skyward, but the rain paints my window and the buildings are a watercolor smear. _

_The rain's coming down in sheets. The windshield wipers are working overtime. _

_People are napping, the rain coaxing them to sleep. There's a guy some rows in front, bobble-head napping – falling forward, springing up. Forward, up. _

_The woman next to him chuckles while pretending to read her book. _

_In front of me, an old man sleeps with a cowboy hat on his face, whistling through his nose. If I kick his seat just right, he gives two short whistles and settles down for a beat before picking it back up again. The guy next to him, bald and squat, has his head back and mouth open, he doesn't look like he's breathing, but he's not blue in the face, either. _

_Next to me, in a green army jacket, my neighbor sleeps chin-to-chest. He smells like a campfire and tobacco. _

_I have questions. Thousands of questions. _

_I can't even listen to music, I'm too excited and it's too quiet in the cabin. I can't stand it, I want to get up, yell "Wake up!"_

_But I don't. I stay still. Eyes on the glossy road. _

_Water sloshes under the tires, swish swish. _

_Or is that the dirty water from the back toilet?_

_1:30pm_

_We're coming up on the next stop. I will get out and stretch my legs, take in the lay of the land from an underpass in another industrial town with the same fast-food joints. _

_Is it possible to have a change of scenery? I hope so. _

_The guy next to me woke up when we hit a bump in the road. Startled, his head shot up to find his bearings. I was that bearing. I couldn't sleep so I put my hand out, and not without suspicion, he shook it. I doubted many people did that, offered him a hand. _

_He told me his name was Jeff. "This is my stop," he said to me. We talked about where we were going, but not so much where we came from. He dug in his jacket and pulled out a picture. "That's my son. He's gonna be 13 next month. His mom says he's going to be a pitcher." The boy was on bended knee, ball cap askew, with a cocky grin on his face. It must have been sunny that day; his son's face squinted into the camera. _

_I handed the picture back to him. "He looks like you."_

_"Poor guy, don't tell his mom that, he'd never live it down. She doesn't care for me much."_

_That's when I got it, the distressed eyes, the homeless smell. _

_"It is what it is," he said after a silence. _

_Before he left, he asked if I had a few dollars to spare, said it was a long trip to see his son. I gave him a twenty; I didn't have anything smaller. _

_2:30pm_

_I feel different. Not like the same guy from last night or two years ago. Here, among strangers, I can be anyone I want to be. I don't have to be Edward-the-virgin, or Edward-the-loner. Surprisingly, I don't feel alone._

_I'm beginning to realize that the guy coming out of my skin is Rose's influence. I have her to thank for pulling my head out of my ass. When I get off at the next stop, I'm going to buy her a present, something that will make her laugh. _

_New people are climbing aboard, different set of faces, but the same closed-off, guarded looks. A few nods. Hello. Detached stares. _

_I'm glad they don't know me._

_7:30 pm Cincinnati – Bus Depot_

_I'm outside and the air is fresh and damp. _

_Did the entire state of Ohio get flooded with rain today? _

_It is the last part of the day, the dinnertime hour in which everyone is called home to the safest place they know. The sun is low, behind the steel and stone make-up of the city. The shadows are deeper, longer and the orange lights of the street lamps waver on the slick road. _

_A service worker has ended her shift. I saw her say goodbye to her friend, hang up her apron, and grab her purse. She walks with purpose to the parking lot, keys in hand, going somewhere with a spring in her step and I imagine a family waiting at home for her, needing her. _

_But not me. I am balancing between my last home and my new one. At this very moment, my life is suspended. _

_It is the best kind of stomach dip._

_8:30pm _

_Back on the road._

_It's been a long day. _

_On the last bus, between Columbus and Cincinnati, I sat next to a black dude with short dreads like black screws. He glanced at me suspiciously. One wrong, foolish look and the whole ride would turn awkward. I couldn't decide if it was cooler to scowl or smile. I settled for a blank face and a nod. He returned it, stowed his bag, and sat down, plugging his ears with ear buds. _

_I tried to sleep, but he muttered under his breath. I opened an eye and he was smiling at nothing I could see. I couldn't take it. I had to ask. _

_I nudged his elbow on the armrest carefully and pulled out my invisible earphones._

_"The Reds, man." A Cincinnati Reds fan, he was listening to the game. They were two innings __in,__ fighting for a playoff berth, he told me. I found out they were playing the Cubs. _

_"What's the score?"_

_For the next two hours, he spread the Gospel of the Cincinnati Reds with the zeal of a lifelong believer. I listened as he relived their 70s dominance and plied me with more stats than I could wrap my head around. In between his lesson, he'd plug his ears, check the score, and continue his story, never missing a beat. Soon we collected attention in our little corner. Some passengers waved him off when he got in on Pete Rose, and soon enough, he was told to shut up. _

_I was having a good time, for he wouldn't stop good-naturedly ribbing his detractors. One woman, with a lunch-lady waist and a no-nonsense attitude, pursed her lips and clucked, "Hush, you, about the Reds. The Yankees are going all the way, you'll see." _

_A chorus of boos and hisses and clapping erupted in the cabin (with no less laughter). The uproar culminated when my new friend declared that the Reds won, 3-2 against the Cubs. Jubilant and inspired, everyone got in on his or her favorite teams, and that's how I passed the time traveling through the afternoon. _

_When we reached Cincinnati in the early evening, I felt lighter, freer, 'adventure' my middle name. I had to transfer to another bus again with hours to spare in-between. _

_In the bus depot, I grabbed a bite to eat and I bought gifts for Rose and dad. It was a large hub with snack cages, restaurants, lockers for serious travelers, and a bathroom where I cleaned up with scratchy brown paper towels. I washed my face and scrubbed it dry, almost a day's worth of scruff, reddened cheeks, and greasy hair that needed a haircut. _

_I smiled the smile of a loon. _

_9pm_

_I want to get off at the next stop and start my life, spin the wheel, wherever it stops, there I am. What if I got off with the last of my cash and called it a day? What if I worked in a diner, or picked up the odd job moving further into the country, mapping the land or letting it map me, make me the man I am supposed to be? Maybe I'll find my girl on some Texas prairie or a Colorado valley. What if she's a rustic beauty in Arizona or a tanned temptress out of California?_

_Where could she be?_

_10pm _

_My stomach hurts. I think it was my dinner. _

_10:30pm_

_I can't sleep. I have a new neighbor, a teen with a pregnant belly and colorless hair, like ramen noodles in a ponytail. She's nice. She had an extra Sprite to share. I feel better. I offered her a dollar for it. She didn't take it. _

_Midnight_

_Time passes by the dim glow of filling stations, mega stores, fast food drive-thrus, 24/7 diners, truck weighing stations, rest stops, and when the landscape of America darkens in its own slumber, it lights up again around the next bend, starting the chain all over again. _

_I can't keep my eyes closed, afraid to miss out on the passing landscape. It's changing, I can feel it. _

_I think we're in Kentucky now. I can't see it, and it scares me that I can't. I can feel the engine turn over slowly, working its way up a mountain pass. _

_I don't recognize anything but the Milky Way. I stay awake, identifying the constellations. _

_I saw a shooting star in the middle of nowhere. I'm going to pretend it's just for me. _

_1am_

_I don't want to think about my first day without dad and Rose. But I can't stop myself. I wonder what they are doing, if they are thinking of me. Do they miss me yet? What's Rose doing in her hidey-hole__?__H__as she gone out to Constance Park to sit at the top of the slide like we used to, looking at the same set of stars I am?_

_Will she forget me? _

_Is dad asleep yet? Has he taken his meds for his cholesterol? Did he sneak an extra slice of bacon while I was gone? _

_Why do I feel guilty?_

_I can't turn back, but the rebellious urges I started out with have no staying power tonight. _

I wanted to cry for the first time since I left, gutted with loneliness, and stripped from everything that had been familiar to me.

The strangers on the bus, a cold reminder that I was in this alone, slept without a spare thought for the forlorn 18-year-old kid in the quiet night.

* * *

><p>I drifted off for a few hours and woke up when the hydraulic brakes hissed to a stop in front of a small bus depot. It was a blue-fogged morning.<p>

_Welcome to the Volunteer State, Home of the Smoky Mountains_ read a wooden sign. We were in Eastern Tennessee, at the base of Smoky Mountain National Park. Our bus looked like a tin can at the foot of the muscular range that stretched out of the earth like a purple-bearded ghost. It was majestic and awesome.

In the middle of the night, the bus had deposited and picked up more passengers. An Hispanic woman had taken up the seat in front of me. She traveled with her little girl. They held hands tightly as they got out of their seats. The young mother spoke to the driver in broken English. I wondered why they were all alone, and from the looks of it, with few worldly possessions. In their seats sat plastic bags bursting with clothes and toys. A small, red cooler sat at their feet.

I should have packed food, I thought. I was hungry again. I could have gone for a home cooked meal. They got off to stretch their legs and I followed.

I hung back outside, thinking about my cash reserve. I opened my wallet and counted. I had eight dollars to my name. I counted again.

How did _that _happen?

I took out my journal and did the math.

_$100_

_- 30 (Sweatshirt for Rose)_

_- 24 (T-shirt for dad)_

_- 20 (Jeff, the homeless vet)_

_- 18__ (Skyline chili and Coca-Cola)_

_$8_

I still had all day. I wouldn't see Tallahassee until late afternoon. So much for eating again. I was going to stick with the plan, all I had to do was hold out until I got to my destination. I wasn't going to call dad and tell him that I overspent my cash in one day. That was not an option.

We were at a run-down general store as old as the last century. Two soda pop machines stood guard on either side of the entrance.

Inside, the shelves were cluttered with bent canned goods coated in dust. The walls were lined with rifles for sale, state flags, and taxidermy. Racks of postcards, snow globes, and magnets showcased the beauty of the Volunteer State.

I squatted outside, people-watching in the chilled morning air. I was broke, but I wasn't worried. The previous night's melancholy burned off me and I was refreshed again.

Raised voices in the store caught my attention and I turned to see the young mother and daughter at the counter. A mountain of change sat in front of the irate cashier as he watched the kid whine for candy. The mom shook her head at the girl and gave embarrassed glances at the cashier. Around the store, no one else paid them mind. I reached for my wallet, figuring I had enough for peanuts and bottled water.

I went in, grabbed my stuff and got behind the mother. She didn't notice me, but her kid with the Blow Pops in her hand did. She smiled and stuck them out at me like a bouquet. I snatched them before her mom could say anything and plunked everything down on the counter along with my cash. Before the mom turned around and figured out what had happened, I was already pocketing my change.

She was surprised, uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention. I shrugged and used my cute kid smile, like I got busted with my hand in the cookie jar. Looking back on it, it was a cheap trick, but how do you say in Spanish, "Sorry to intrude, but your kid was crying for a lollipop, and you're traveling out of a busted piggy bank, and she co-conspired with me to buy her the candy. Also, it's my pleasure."

My Spanish was crap so I went with what I knew. "Hola?"

She smiled then and shook her head, looking between the kid and me like she wanted to thank and scold us both at the same time. The little one was a three-foot version of the woman in front of me. Up close, I could tell that child-rearing and some shit times made her wary of strangers buying her child candy. She had every right to feel that way, but I wasn't the bad guy.

I gathered her change and slid it into the canvas bag she carried. "Thank you," she said with a sweet, but shy smile. She nudged her child out the door with one hand, and held her groceries in the other. The little one ran back to me with a Blow Pop. Her mom called her back, "Lupe!"

Lupe came over and tugged my t-shirt until I was bent forward, nose to nose. "Gracias," she giggled, and I gave my high-school Spanish another shot. "De nada, Lupe." She offered me a lollipop and I accepted it with a smile, patting the space between her pigtails.

She ran back to her mom and hopped on the bus.

We had time to spare so I hung back and inhaled the crisp air –wood-pine, and tangy-sweet. A few cars and 18-wheelers were parked out front, and again, I couldn't stop wondering where people were going, what industries were being shuttled by the truckloads across the great land. Did the people who ran the store retain the wonder of their surroundings? Or did they walk past the beauty without a second glance?

I had too many questions I wanted answers to, and I had this crazy urge to experience everything in my dreams right then and there, as if I could fast forward through time and acquire every life lesson before I got back on the bus. But those thoughts aimed to kill me with impatience.

I was lucky to be pulled out of them when a girl rushed past me.

She wore a sundress and a thin white sweater. She had goose bumps up her calves and a bus ticket hanging out of her purse. It was too cold out for her pretty outfit, but I wasn't complaining, even her shivering was sexy. She was strong limbs and a pouty mouth, with jet-black hair in a ponytail. Her complexion: Arabian and exotic.

Her outfit hugged her so tight; I caught textures through the cloth that made my ears turn pink. I couldn't avert my eyes if I tried. She dropped three quarters in the pop machine and tapped on her selection. Nothing came out. She did it again. Nothing. By the third time, she was cursing, and banging on it.

I stood up to help her out but a bear of a guy stepped out of the store and beat me to it. I hadn't seen him walk in, but there he was, signaling her to step back. He lifted the thing clear off its side as if he could shake the cans out. Both of them looked on anxiously as the bus driver boarded and turned on the ignition.

"It's easy," Rose once told me. "Give it a good knock on the side, below your can, and it will come right out. Works every time." Months spent in hotel rooms traveling to competitions taught her how to get her way with stubborn snack machines.

Sighing, I went over and banged the side of the machine with my fist just like she taught me. Out popped a can of grape soda. The girl picked it up, cracked it open, and took the longest swallow I'd ever seen. I believe it was my introduction to the gag reflex (or lack thereof).

Both Big Guy and I gaped while she downed half the can like she was bottomless. _Good God. _

Daintily she wiped her lips with her thumb and forefinger. She said, "thank you", giving us a peek at her tongue, purple from her drink. I tipped my head and watched her saunter across the road and get on the bus.

"Nice job, hero."

Big Guy's voice startled me for two reasons. One, it was unexpected, and two, it held admiration.

"Just luck," I shrugged.

"Right and 'just luck' for that little girl with the candy. Right time, right place and all that." He smiled and slapped me on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"Where'd you learn that? TV?"

"Nah, my best friend back home."

"Yeah? He's got the touch." I didn't think a guy like him would ever understand a girl like Rosalie. She'd have him for breakfast.

I grinned, knowing something he didn't know. "I guess you can say that."

The Big Guy eyed my day's scruff and long hair with amusement. I rubbed a self-conscious hand across my cheek.

"You a hippie?" he asked with a glint in his eye.

I laughed. "It's been a long ride."

"Where from?"

"New York. You?"

"Me? I'm just getting on." His whole manner shimmered with mischief, his one dimple confirmed it. He looked like trouble was just another word for paradise.

Beautiful, raven-haired girl with the purple tongue sat at a window seat; she turned our way, motioning for us to hurry up and board. We jogged up; we were the last ones on.

There weren't many of us that morning. We were sprawled out in small sets, taking over whole rows to get more sleep. Thing about riding a bus like that for twenty hours is that your mind never shuts off – all of your hopes and dreams are back where you left them, or where you're going.

I fashioned a plastic bag of t-shirts into a pillow and lay my head against it, my cheek on the cold window. A few rows in front of me sat the purple-tongued girl, and up two more rows, to the left, sat Big Guy. He reminded me of Clark Kent, muscles bounded by a white button-up, without the glasses to complete the picture. In front of me sat Lupe and her mom.

We headed out of town.

Hours after our encounter, and a nap blistered with bumps along the highway, I looked over at Big Guy. He took up two seats, his back to the window, reading a book.

I caught his eyes pulling away every other minute to the girl. Sometimes they'd flicker over to me, like a circuit. He was watching, I figured, waiting for me to make a move on the lonesome girl. Finally, I acknowledged him with a brow lift and he sent me a questioning look, imperceptibly nodding toward her.

We were two hunters strategizing, and sizing up the kill. I huffed out a laugh at this game, and sank back into my seat, relinquishing the battle over to him. It wasn't something I did, compete for a girl. His eyes grew big, disbelieving that I'd give up so easy. It turned into doubt, then suspicion. I ignored him and looked out the window. He probably thought I had the hots for her, and why wouldn't he, she was gorgeous. But it didn't matter that her tongue probably tasted like a chilled grape; she was no forever-girl. I knew that right away.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him get up and make his move.

Simple steps, every one of them I recognized, like lines in a song. He was cool. He moved to the aisle seat across from her with no pretense. He asked for permission to sit by her, she demurred. His shoulders moved in like he was about to tell her a secret. She bent her neck to him, and that's when he grinned. In less than thirty seconds, she nodded.

As he took his seat next to her, he looked at me, the clear winner of a game I forfeited long before it began.

I could have done that if I wanted to, I thought. Right there, I wished I could be like him. I had a nagging fear of my inexperience. I had no practice with women, none. What if the day came and I found the girl I've set my heart on? How would I know what to do? Would I be like him, smooth and confident?

Before I got too lost in my thoughts, my belly grumbled loudly. I clenched my stomach, trying to silence it. I hadn't been so hungry a second ago, and suddenly, I was ravenous. So much so that I imagined the smell of something oniony and spicy wafting under my nose. I had my eyes closed and willed myself to stop daydreaming about food, but the scent intensified.

"'Scuse me, sir?"

It was a mirage – a wonderful, edible mirage. I opened my eyes to a giant, foiled burrito under my nose. Lupe held it out in both her hands, waving it around. No wonder I was ready to eat my arm off.

Her mom spoke. "Please, take. I make it. Go, take."

Lupe's mom had opened the cooler with juice boxes and lots of foiled-up goodies to keep them for a while. I took the burrito, bashful of my state, but not proud enough to go hungry. I smiled and thanked them, grateful for their generosity. The young mother waved me off, no longer shy.

She didn't have a ring on, that was the first thing I noticed. Between our seats, I glimpsed photos, roughened with age, passed back and forth, while Lupe asked questions that her mom responded to patiently. I didn't have to know their language to get it. I hoped that wherever they were headed meant there was a guy, a dad, who cared for them.

I sank back into my seat and ate my meal, avoiding the large questions that were bound to make me blue.

The big guy was making out with the purple-tongued girl, slumped down in the seats in a feeble attempt at modesty, but it wasn't enough. Lupe craned her neck for a better look, but her mom distracted her with pictures.

I pegged him for a player. But even that didn't seem right. His good-natured face sat on top of oafish shoulders, giving the impression of a dumb jock, but that didn't look right, either. I gave up trying to figure him out. Here I was doing the exact same thing that bothered me about the folks back home, judging the book by its cover.

Tired and full, my body gave out and I found a neutral state of mind that I could coast on while Lupe's mom sang a lullaby that sent her daughter and me into slumber in the middle of the day.

Finally.

I passed out as the sun rose over the mountains.

_August 16__th__, 2pm, Somewhere in Georgia_

_I'm groggy, my throat scratchy, and I'm ready to get off this bus. _

_I could be worse. _

_I woke up with that strange, unexpected thrill again. _

_I dreamt that I was floating in an ocean at night. I was alone, naked, and dying of thirst. The stars burned like Roman candles above, sinking at the horizon until they melted into the inky water. _

_I screamed into the darkness. My voice carried no weight, dying before the first echo. _

_I was on the verge of panicking when the scene changed. _

_A field and a golden day, yellow and blue. _

_A clothesline and white, snapping sheets in the breeze. _

_A dress hugging a girl's back. She has long brown hair and bends at the waist, into her basket. _

_She's humming. _

_I'm behind her and I know this because I see my hands in front of me, older, weathered. They move to her hips from behind and while I can't see me and I can't see her, I recognize how her body sighs into my arms. Weightless, easy. _

_I know, deep down in my toes, that if I ever hear her laugh, I'll be knocked over by it. I know this because, in my dreams, I hear it, always before I wake, my heart blasts off like a rocket ship. _

_I woke up then, yearning._

_I woke up hard. _

_2:30pm_

_We've passed Atlanta, almost there._

_Maybe it's the sun on the window, bright furnace on my face not even the A/C on the bus can cool. My body is relaxed and lazy. The trees on the side of the road, I want to know their names because they are beautiful and just as weighed down by the heat as I am. _

_The further South we go, the less I recognize the landscape. It sprawls out, flat, rolling like the Southern lilts I've been hearing all afternoon from the other passengers. _

_Peaches. _

_Peaches, everywhere. Peach trees, peach roadside stands selling peach pie with a side of peach lemonade, and jars of peach jam for souvenirs, and crates of peaches for homemade peach ice cream, and peach cobbler to enjoy with peach cider, or if you're feeling like a real rebel, some peach wine. _

_Do the women taste like peaches here, like peach juice?_

_It's so hot, I'm sweaty and horny. I'm glad there's no one next to me, that this bus is empty. I'm dying to jack off, the dream has stuck to me like sweat in places I can't reach. I can't get comfortable and when I close my eyes I replay it, manufacturing bits that didn't happen because fuck, I want to grab her hips again and push until she gives, until her neck bends forward, sticky from the heat, tasty like nectar._

_I add a zipper to the back of her dress, and unzip her with my mouth._

I groaned and closed my journal. I had nothing more to write. I rested my head on the seat in front of me, my dick solid like a lead pipe. What was my fate? To carry this thing, always hard, always with a mind of it's own?

Mercy. I wanted to cry mercy. Fuck it, I opened my journal again.

_3pm_

_I'm not a saint. _

_I want an angel to open up her robe._

_I want to suck and hiss my way up her legs like a serpent. _

_It's too hot outside. August hot. Tar melting hot. The road shimmers hot. Hot outside. _

_Inside, hot._

I closed the book and forced myself to sleep a while more. I felt dejected, I didn't want to wake.

* * *

><p><em>4:30pm, Tallahassee, FL<em>

_30 hours, 4 states later: I'm here. _

My body ached, my knees groaned, and I smelled like a swamp. I was relieved, bone-weary, and excited as we pulled in to the bus bay. Everyone had long gone – Lupe and her mom, and even the dark-haired girl.

Big Guy had moved back to his seat and was fast asleep. I bumped his foot as I passed him and he startled awake, wiping off his face, and looking out the window.

"Are we in heaven yet?"

I pointed to the sign out front. "Welcome to the Sunshine State."

He grinned, stretching out. "Close enough."

We got off at the same time. I slung my backpack on my shoulder and grabbed my suitcase. I had no money and a long walk ahead of me. I wasn't kidding when I told dad I would memorize the maps.

I stepped out on to the street; campus wasn't far and I had my housing assignment. At least I knew where I was going. I'd call dad after I got settled in.

I made my way up a quiet hill. A cab pulled up next to me.

"Hey, New York!"

It was the big guy, hanging out of the back passenger window with a broad grin. The dimple was showing. "Where you going? Need a ride?"

I looked up the hill and back at the bus station. My bag was heavy and I needed a real bed.

"Yeah, I'm headed to campus. You?"

He laughed like he _knew_ this was how the day would end. "Same, New York, same. It's my first year," he said with real pride. "Hop in."

I didn't think twice. I rapped my knuckles on the trunk and the driver popped it open. I threw my bags in and climbed into the cab.

"Edward Cullen," I told my new friend, sticking my hand out.

He took it and we shook excitedly, feeding off the newfound energy. "Emmett. Emmett McCarty, buddy."

Buddy, indeed. After that day, I never lacked another.

* * *

><p>AN:

WriteOnTime had the perfect song for this chapter. Now, Simon and Garfunkel's, "America", is stuck in my head. I love it. faireyfan, a writer's dream come true, gave me the idea for the journal-entry format when I thought my first draft fell flat. Thanks for being a beautiful idea-factory, A.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I took liberties with names, places, and things to protect the innocent.

* * *

><p><strong>Gentleman Ed – The Delicate Situation – Emmett's Spirit Bear – Punch Drunk Punch<br>**

* * *

><p>I was perched on an orange couch surrounded by wood-paneled walls, squeezing Tanya's silicone boob as though it were a bicycle horn when the front door slammed opened to a mustachioed trucker sporting fists the size of hams.<p>

His stricken voice was high-pitched for a man who had to duck his head when he entered. "Tanya?"

The girl in question and I were funhouse mirrors of surprise.

"Tanya, what in the name…what's this guy doing with his hand on your knockers?" He pointed to my paralyzed hand, emphasizing exhibit A.

Fuckshit.

There I sat, one month into my freshman year, dumbfounded and panicked, in a double-wide trailer, groping a gaping-mouthed girl while my _buddy_, Emmett, fucked her mom in the next room. Surely, I'd fallen asleep during the part of orientation warning us against a hot mess.

Years later, Emmett would downplay the incident by dubbing it, "The Delicate Situation".

But there was nothing delicate about the shadow of light stretching on the green carpet behind the trucker. The source more than likely came from the bedroom of sin where I pictured Emmett poking his head out like Punxsatawney Phil, checking the weather and popping back in his hidey hole after predicting the dark storm that was a' brewing.

_Emmett._ This was all his fault.

* * *

><p>The day I arrived in Tallahassee, Emmett and I found out we were in the same residence hall. We weren't assigned to room together, but he flashed his pearly-whites at Jessica, the head RA with the demeanor of a Senator's wife, and later bribed our assigned suitemates to switch. Mike Newton and Ben Cheney ended up as bunkmates on the first floor while Emmett and I had the best seats from the fifth floor, facing the great, green beauty of Landis Lawn.<p>

Emmett's hunting binoculars served a dual purpose, allowing us a close-up view of the stately Strozier Library across from our building and a stone fountain gurgling pleasantly in the center of it all.

Embellishing the picture were sun-thirsty beauties offering their skin up to the sky. Around them, lanky cypress trees and fat magnolia blossoms shaded the hot vegetation below.

Ben and Mike, the good sports that they were, warmed up to us after Emmett came through on his promise to procure booze. He didn't need a fake ID given the size of him. He had Ben and Mike's fridge stocked with Rolling Rocks in no time. There was still the question of providing girls for them and when the duo had arrived knocking, excited to go on the hunt, I grabbed my backpack and left, claiming I had lot of studying to catch up on.

I think they saw right through me.

In my first month, I hoofed the terrain as far as my legs could carry me. Between classes and at night, I'd follow the well-worn footpaths meandering through campus, admiring the red-brick buildings lit by a hum of street lamps. Shadows played against the bushes in the evening, it was the best time to lose myself. I concentrated on the hush of my footfall on the thick grass when I stepped off the path and the steady clopping of my heels on the stone walkway. I was out of my element and it suited me perfectly.

On the day of the 'Delicate Situation', I was walking from the library to our dorm room, minding my own business, as it happens on days when shit hits the fan, and ruminating on my roommate. Guilt plagued me for thwarting his efforts to hang out with me.

It was Emmett who suggested we bunk together when we first arrived.

He was full of exuberance, which made me grin, as we hauled our suitcases across campus on a balmy Tallahassee evening.

We were the last two in the registration line. While we waited, my new friend formed a plan.

Emmett bounced on his toes as the devilish workings of his mind geared up.

"Gentleman Ed, what do you say we bunk together?"

"I didn't catch that…"

"We should bunk together."

"No, the first part, did you call me _Gentleman Ed?_ Where did that come from?"

"Ah, just that a gentleman always makes things right with the ladies." I smiled; he was still applauding me for helping out little Lupe and Grape Soda Girl from the bus depot in Tennessee.

"So what do you say? You seem like an okay guy, let's tell them there was a mix-up or something."

"I don't know," I started, rubbing the back of my neck. "Wouldn't we have to re-apply?"

Emmett craned his neck around the girl in front of us, gauging how much time we had.

"Nothing's too late with a smile and good manners." He shamelessly employed his signature dimple.

I stalled. I knew next to nothing about him except that he was born and raised in Tennessee, ten miles from the bus depot where we met. Emmett had already proven to be a stand-up guy, as far as I was concerned. I felt indebted to him simply for being kind to me with the cab ride. But I was no fool. I had to make sure.

"How do I know you're not going to be a total slob or stink up our room?"

He backed up, hardly offended. "Ah, you want my measurements. I get it."

"I've only known you for less than a day, I have to size you up somehow."

"Okay, Gentleman Ed, what do you wanna know? Hit me, I'm clean." He took a dramatic breath and braced himself.

There were many things I didn't know, nor how much trust I could spend on him. This was tricky. I had to choose very wisely, we didn't have much time.

I went with a softball question first.

"What's your favorite kung-fu movie?"

"Enter the Dragon."

"That was a 'gimme'." He shrugged, having bested it. "Okay, name your favorite pitcher and why?"

"Nolan Ryan, Texas Rangers, because he kicked Ventura's ass on the mound. The guy was twenty-six years his junior _and _Ryan pitched hitless the rest of the game. Best right hook in the league."

"Okay, not a popular choice _and _violent. I like it." He smiled proudly.

"One more; Princess Leia or Padme Amidala?"

"Leia, no contest. She showed the most skin."

I had to hand it to him, he was no dummy. My interrogation was over and sensing this, his face stretched into a smile like he had something up his sleeve.

"Fair's fair. It's my turn."

We had scooted into the building and stood under the doorway of the foyer – high ceilings and wood floors, footsteps echoed. I was already going to like it here and I had already made my decision to go along with whatever plans Emmett concocted, but he had a point. Fair's fair.

"Shoot."

"Your favorite Bond and Bond girl in the same movie."

I didn't blink. "Honey Ryder in _Dr. No_. Sean Connery is the man."

"Impressive. She wore a knife in her bikini. And Sean Connery is the _only_ Bond."

"Exactly."

He wagged his finger in my face. "Okay, one more and then you're doing this with me." He smiled no-good, and spoke low in my ear so his question wouldn't bounce off the walls.

"Landing strip or bare fields?"

And there it was, right out of the gate. I knew it was a sexual innuendo, but it took me a beat longer to respond than a guy 'in the know'. Carelessly, I spit out the first thing that came to mind.

"Landing strip." It almost left my mouth as a question.

Emmett backed up and crossed his arms, considering.

"Alright, alright, alright. I like that, groomed, but covered. Good choice."

I huffed out a short laugh, forgetting all nervousness.

"So what do you say, we rooming or what?"

I looked at him square in the eye. "Lead the way."

* * *

><p>That was four weeks ago, and I had arrived at another Friday night. I was ready to let off a weak excuse for bowing out of the social scene, but then I remembered Rose's phone call earlier in which we discussed everything <em>except<em> my dodging and in which she picked up on my tone and with no forewarning told me to 'man up'. Leave it to Rose dispense succinct advice.

So by the time I reached the steps leading up to our dorm, I was resolved to get out of my shell and allow myself to have fun.

I didn't want to repeat my high school experience and become a hermit again.

Emmett had rounded the corner and caught up to me on the steps. He wore a towel around his neck and a gym bag over his shoulder. When you think of the Devil, he will show up high on an endorphin rush.

"Gentleman Ed, how's the weather?"

I smiled. It was overcast, but Emmett determined my moods by asking for my internal temperature.

"Clear skies and sunshine," I smiled. He nodded, satisfied, and considered his next words.

I came to learn that Emmett was perpetually pondering the next exciting venture with the wild pleasure of an Amway salesman. Watching his gears work lasted a few seconds, but those seconds contained all the deviancy of a boy never satisfied with his share of cake.

"I have a proposition."

This didn't surprise me. Now by this point, I should have paid attention to the red flags, the sirens, and the horns, but I was resolved to go with the flow.

"Shoot."

He dropped his bag and rubbed his hands together. "There's this girl."

Of course.

Fun fact about Emmett: He was an equal-opportunity Lothario. When it came to women, he didn't discriminate based on age, creed, race, color, political background, religious leaning, or circus act. He loved them all and he loved them often.

During the summer of his seventeenth year, he worked on a gambling riverboat, selling seats and reservations to tourists. His size, not his age, allowed him early entry into an otherwise adult profession, not to mention a well-connected uncle gladly hosted him one summer. Emmett's job when called for was to play the part of an 1800's saloon blackjack dealer, replete with tie and suspenders. The number of girls who passed through guaranteed a couple of life-long memories. He played the game and he played the field – sometimes with other people's women.

Once, he shared a quick romp with Lady Luck in a prop room. He was dressed in his dealer pin-stripes and she wore bustled skirts and plumaged hair. Things were heating up when an insistent banging drove Emmett under her skirt, seeking shelter from her boyfriend's intrusion. The girl managed to quiet the racket with an exasperated excuse, saving them from peril. None of it fazed him as he worked his head up toward the Promised Land.

He had lots of stories of that kind.

"How many times did you get busted?" I asked him once.

"Too many to count," he replied, after considering for a full day.

I didn't want to be an accessory to his carnal crimes so I suggested he fill in the blanks before I committed to his scheming on that fateful night.

"She's a regular at Riley's – "

"This the bar you were telling me about?"

"Yeah, man, you'd love it. They don't ID and it's all locals, great place."

"You a local now?"

"Where everybody knows my name."

I laughed. "You work quick. And this girl?"

"Irina's her name and I have a shot at her tonight, but the thing is she won't let me come over unless I bring a sitter."

"A babysitting job? How old is Irina?"

"Does it matter? She's a sweetheart."

"What about her kid?"

"I don't know, but she can't be that young. It's not like you're changing diapers and before you go there, Irina's husband has been out of the picture for years. She told me so."

It was a strange request even for him.

"All you have to do is sit with her daughter for a few hours, that's all."

I had to admit, I was thinking the worst, but babysitting seemed easy enough.

"What's in it for me?"

He lit up into ten thousand megawatts. "I got us a car."

A car. I got the impression that favor or not, Emmett would generously share his car, regardless of my answer, which only served to solidify my decision. The prospect of a vehicle in this small town was no small potatoes.

I'd already seen everything there was to see of campus, a month in and I had developed restless leg syndrome. I wanted out and I wanted to hit right and left on Florida's panhandle. I wanted to dip my toes in the Gulf of Mexico.

A car was just what I needed. Dad and I had agreed that if I kept my grades up and helped pay for the down payment, I'd have one of my own.

But I didn't have a car today.

Emmett had a car today. I was done with my questions; I was ready. And all for babysitting some lady's kid.

"Okay, count me in."

He danced on his toes, electrified by my acquiescence.

"I knew I could count on you!" He slapped my shoulder and lifted his bag. We headed inside to get ready.

* * *

><p>Emmett had purchased a used boxy Volvo from a friend of a friend. The bumper sticker read, "Proud Parent of an Honor Roll Student." From the rear window a sticker of a four-legged Darwin fish antagonized science-suspicious drivers. In this neck of the woods, I laughed at it nervously.<p>

The Volvo was a stick, which I'd never driven before. Emmett gave me a twenty-minute lesson in the parking lot to familiarize me with clutch and gear, and after that, we were burning rubber. I stalled out only twice on the way to Irina's.

On the way there, we discussed our new arrangement. He'd make payments on the car and I'd keep it gassed and maintained. It was a fair agreement, and in no time we were plotting a weekend in the small salt-rock town that bumped into the Atlantic. I had heard about St. Augustine, two hours east of us. It was a stop for the Spanish conquistador, Ponce de Leon, a swirly-eyed dreamer who spent his life macheteing through jungles on his quest for the fountain of youth. It was claimed he discovered it in the dense outpost of St. Augustine. Even if it was a tourist trap, my curiosity was piqued.

In between our fantasies of exploring the Florida panhandle and beyond, Emmett gave me directions to Irina's. She lived where the woodsy outpouring gave way to Payday Loans and beat down auto repair shops, mobile homes surrounded by concrete and treeless avenues.

Irina lived in Happy Homes trailer park.

We drove through the welcome gate and dropped our speed to five miles per hour, swerving past kids on bikes. I gathered they weren't used to strangers if the unmasked curiosity of the neighbors said anything about it. They lounged on canvas chairs or cracked open their blinds to stare at us. Dinnertime wafted through our windows, shouts and baying laughter echoed from a street over as the end of day relaxed in the shadows.

We found her trailer and parked the car.

A screen door whined open and out pounced a…_mom. _A hot mom with leopard bra straps hanging out of her sundress.

"Emmie!" She caught her slipper on the bottom step.

I leaned over to Emmett and whispered, "I thought you said she was a girl."

"She's young at heart, Ed. Let's not judge."

"I'm not judging, but how old is her daughter?"

"Ten maybe, I don't know."

Irina, the hot mom with enough curves to make her a traffic hazard, leaped up and caught herself on Emmett's hips while he laughed and twirled her around. "How's my hot mama?"

She buried her face in my friend's neck like she was lovin' on her teddy bear during nappy time. I coughed and gestured to the trailer. It was time to get the show on the road.

"Irina, baby honey, I can't stay long. My buddy here's got plans later and he's my ride, so…"

She looked at him and nodded. "Oh, don't worry, honey. I got your message."

Irina assessed me. She slid off Emmett and sauntered my way with a hand on her hip, suddenly, business-like.

"What's your name, again?"

"Edward Cullen."

"Age?"

I looked at Emmett, wondering why the third degree. He signaled for me to roll with it.

"Eighteen."

"And your occupation, young man?"

She walked slowly around me.

"Student."

"Any felonies and misdemeanors?"

All this for a sitting gig? Did she want my social security number, too?

"No…ma'am."

She stopped in front of me and her face burst open like day-old sunshine at "ma'am". Bingo, I was in the South. That word had cachet here.

"Well, alright then, sugar. Come on in, I'll introduce you to Tanya."

Right, Tanya, the kid. I prayed for a surly girl who just wanted to watch MTV or play UNO or something.

We were on her front porch when a catty voice yelled from across the street.

"Hiiii, Irina, who're your guests?"

Irina spun around and her tone went from sweet to raging mad in zero to sixty. "Shut the fuck up, Lannie. You nosy whore!" Lannie was a stout, white-haired woman stabbing a cigarette in a flowerpot while she sat on her stoop. She wore a nurse's uniform and a big fat bully's smile on her face.

"Don't mind me, bitch, just being neighborly."

Irina brought us inside and made a show of slamming her door shut. "Everyone's so nosy, and she's the worst of 'em. Tanya, honey, get these boys some sweet tea."

Irina and Tanya's double-wide décor consisted of Bob Ross happy-cloud paintings and a velvet Elvis portrait, framed and hung, in the center of their living room. It was Elvis of the fly collar, Las Vegas years, and I had to give it to them; it brought the room together.

To the left of the front door was a short hallway leading into what had to be their bedrooms; the rest of it was an open space of kitchen, breakfast bar, and living room.

And in the kitchen, in a tank top and jean skirt, was Tanya.

I interrupted Emmett's fingering of Irina's bra strap. "You didn't say she was an adult."

"She's not an adult, sugar, she's only seventeen," said Irina. She was back to being an old coquette.

The seventeen-year-old _child_ paid no attention to us, although she stopped what she was doing and silently poured us a glass of sweet tea with a teenage scowl on her face. She handed me a glass of the coldest, sweetest, most earth-shattering goodness that was sweet tea. I was falling in love with the South.

I thanked her but she didn't reply.

"She's not rude, really. She hates all her sitters, it's not you. C'mon, Emmett, we don't have all day."

Emmett let Irina tug him toward her room. He waved fingers at my gaping mouth and wiggled his eyebrows. What the fuck was I supposed to do with a girl practically my age while her mom got it on with my friend in the next room? Play Euchere?

The situation spiraled out of my control so fast my stomach sank to the floor. I couldn't make rhyme or reason of such madness.

Before Irina had made it down the hall, she playfully picked a carrot from a bowl and popped it in her mouth.

"Mom! That's my mirepoix! I told you to leave my mise-en-place alone, already!"

Tanya's mom paid her no mind and cackled all the way to her room. It gave me the shivers.

A few months ago I was hanging out with Rose, and now here I was, miles from home, new school, new people, and keeping company with a mad cougar, a boor, and a woman-child.

Everything about this was rotten.

I had no choice but to stick around and make the best of it.

"I'm Edward."

Silence.

Tanya worked in the kitchen as if she were under intense observation, discarding one idea after another, a finger on her lips, and frowning into her frying pan. Carrots, onions, celery, spices, and a lump of raw ground beef waited for her attention in little bowls. They were lined up dutifully as she consulted her textbook on the other side of the stove.

I decided to chance it one more time. "You going to cooking school?"

"Yeah, I just started," she said absentmindedly, stirring her vegetables faster.

"Cool. Your setup is just like on TV – all the stuff out like that." I pointed to the counter and she nodded.

She sighed through her teeth, exasperated. "That's _mise-en-place_, 'everything in its place'. Says so right here." She turned around, exposing the page like a breastplate.

I grinned at her enthusiasm. I remember how she scolded her mother.

"And this is…what did you call it?" I pointed to the line of dishes with carrots, onions, and celery. "This is your meer-pwah, right?"

She giggled. There, that was a good sign. Maybe the night wouldn't be a bust after all.

"Yeah, that's mirepoix," she corrected, enunciating the word like I was in kindergarten and she was my patient grade school teacher. "It's French for all that stuff. You can season everything with it and make chicken stock, turkey stock, beef stock… "

In less than ten minutes she put an apron around both of us. Mine had a picture of a girls' body wearing a yellow polka-dot bikini. "Jackson got it for me for Christmas." She rolled her eyes. "I don't know why. He knows I hate polka dots."

Tanya possessed reddish-blonde hair, svelte hips, and bronze Floridian skin – all the qualities of a Spring Break poster girl in possession of a jealous boyfriend.

I didn't know who this Jackson was, but I would have bet money it was someone I didn't want to meet.

While she schooled me on French cooking terms and the proper method of forming a meatloaf (her chosen assignment), I found out that she dropped out of her Junior year of high school to get a culinary degree.

"I want to be like Rachel Ray, but blonde. And taller. Oh, and not as fat. I want my own cooking show in my own kitchen with copper pots all over the place. I told mama and she said I needed to get my own catch phrase. 'Cause you know, Emeril Lagasse has "BAM!", and Rachel's got "E-V-O-O", so we're still trying to come up with one. I told mama I want to live in Atlanta and work there. Have you been to Atlanta?"

I told her I had not, and clarified I was from New York. Her eyes lit up then, until I corrected her and told her not the City, but upstate, and her countenance dimmed at that. We continued this way as we cooked, back and forth; one second she was impressed that I went to State, and the next I was an inconsequential freshman. Had I been of a fragile disposition, I would have developed a self-esteem issue with the way she see-sawed over my importance in the world. It passed the time.

After we were done with our meal and the aprons were put away, I gladly let Tanya take the lion's share of our conversation.

"Six?" That was the number of daughters Irina had birthed over the course of however many years. I about spit out my fifth serving of sweet tea when Tanya spilled the beans. We were seated on the orange couch, Elvis' diamond and gold encrusted hand waved over us like a blessing from the Pope.

"How old is your mom?"

Tanya snorted into her shoulder and spoke to me through her lashes in a childish whisper. "She's fifty-two, but she chops twenty years off."

There was nothing politically correct about this scenario, and never in my young life did I imagine I'd be on the set of "The Jerry Springer Show".

"You're seventeen, I don't think you need a _babysitter_."

She shrugged. "She's just protective like that. I'm her baby. All my other sisters are gone and I think mama misses having all us girls around. It's just me now. She hates to leave me alone."

"But that's just silly, right? Babies don't carry these around, you know?"

She casually grabbed her breasts and laughed with the kind of hysteria that should be dressed in a straightjacket.

They had a clock above the stove. It was of a pink pig, and its curly tail read six o'clock. We'd been there for two hours. I was ready to go. A few more minutes, I told myself, and then I was knocking on her mom's bedroom door come hell or high water.

Hell came first.

"She loves me, don't get me wrong. She got these for me on my sixteenth birthday. Here, try it." As I scraped my jaw off the floor, she grabbed my hand and planted it square on her boob.

"Go on. Don't just sit there. Squeeze it! Feels real, doesn't it?"

I had never touched a girl intimately and I got excited but not enough to conceal my disappointment. I always imagined a breast would feel pliable like a water balloon, rather than, say, a helium-filled orb. I was going to ask her if she was afraid of it ever popping, but that's when the door opened, and _Jackson_ walked through the door.

I found myself in a delicate situation, all the more painful when Jackson, the trucker who wasn't due back from his last run for another week, quieted Tanya's blubbering by asking too calmly, "Where's your mother?"

In the worst attempt I've ever seen to stall another human being, Tanya jumped up and inconspicuously shouted, "NOWHERE!" for her mother's sake (or perhaps Lannie's across the street). The front door was open and I could have sworn I heard mocking laughter.

"You! Stay right there, I'm gettin' my gun."

The world spun right-side-down, inside-out and I sprang to my feet as soon as he stepped away from the one and only exit. Right then, a loud crash on the other side of the trailer caught his attention. Jackson hustled toward a closet, presumably for his gun to protect his girlfriend.

"He's not my boyfriend. He's my mama's old man," clarified Tanya after I accused her of forcing my hand. Well, she did.

Cue the speedy banjo-pickin' music; I bolted out of there, past the crazed trucker and into the street. I had the car keys in my pocket and I found myself at a standstill as I reluctantly considered the welfare of the big fucking oaf who got me in this mess in the first place. He had to have been aware of what was going on, and as I dallied in the car, I saw his lumbering form speed-waddling across Irina's yard, pulling up his pants, his t-shirt clenched between his teeth.

If I had itched to murder him minutes before, the temptation petered out into a fit of laughter and surging adrenaline rush.

The high was tempered when I spotted Jackson through the window, loading his shotgun. I started the car and Emmett barreled in, his legs hanging out the passenger door as we lit out of the trailer park faster than you can say "E-V-O-O".

* * *

><p>"Holy shit, what were you thinking?"<p>

Emmett's chest heaved a hundred miles per hour, revved up like a racecar. My own blood jetted through me so fast, I rolled down the window and howled like a maniac.

Emmett did the same. "How you like that?" he yelled with the frenzy of a loon into the dark Tallahassee night.

When we reached a stoplight, we were as collected as could be for two college boys who dodged a cuckold's bullet.

The passing thought sobered me right up.

"Seriously, what were you thinking?"

My friend's eyes were wild. He laughed. "Shit, son, turns out I wasn't." He shook his head, disbelieving the night's turn of events, but it did nothing for my rising anger.

"Ah, shit, Gentleman Ed. I'm not kidding. I didn't know! She came up to me at Riley's, and hearing her talk, I thought she had a kid and no old man. I thought she was a lonely single mom. Who was I to deprive the lady?"

"Said lady is in her fifties, a mother of six girls, and has baby-daddies traversing the country in eighteen-wheelers."

He turned pale. "Oh, shit. Six?" He was vigilant for traffic citations, because God knows there was nothing else equally fascinating as we drove back into town.

We were nearing campus when he signaled I should make a U-turn.

"Where we going?"

"I need a drink."

I hesitated. "Riley's?"

"Yeah. Don't sweat it, they'll serve you. C'mon, no more trouble. Promise. I need a shot." I doubled back and followed the road to a different part of town since I was already going to Hell.

"No wonder she kept going on and on and on about Tanya. I mean her kid's hot – apple pie on legs – but I was hoping the apple didn't fall far from the tree." He turned his whole body my way. "Did you know her kid's going to be a chef some day?"

"I have an idea," I muttered.

"All she did was talk about how much she was going to miss her baby girl. She wouldn't shut up about it. I didn't even touch her."

I pointed to his unbuckled belt. He scrambled to get himself together. "I swear I didn't touch her. I meant to, but…I just didn't."

"I'm glad you didn't get it on with Tanya's mom, Emmett. How nice of you. How fucking stand-up of you to keep your hands to yourself while her _daughter_ was in the next room!"

As soon as the words left my mouth, I tasted bitter shame for my part in it. "And this piece of shit car is not worth getting my head blown off by Bubba Fucking Gump, man!" How did I get tangled up in this mess? "I didn't come to school so I could spend my free time jumping out of windows!"

"Edward, I – "

"You want to know what the weather is like right now, Emmett? Wanna know which way the wind blows? It's a fucking pissed-off tsunami right now, it's a tempest, that's what. It's not my business what you do or who you do it with, but don't drag me into your shit again."

"I won't, listen, I – "

I pounded the steering wheel, disgusted with myself. I vowed this was the first and only time Emmett would plot our adventure.

We were back to being quiet.

"You done?" It was an irritated voice, but I didn't care, it was weak coming from him.

I grunted non-commitally.

"I know it's too late what with how things turned out. But I was in the room with Irina, and you're right. I thought about her girl next door. The first five minutes, I was ready to go, not wanting to think about it. But she kept on about her girl, and then I knew you were out there. I'm saying that I wasn't going to go through with it. I was working up an excuse to get out of there when her man showed up. When I heard what's-his-name, I grabbed my shit, popped open the screen, and jumped out the window!"

"Great, so you're telling me better late than never. That would have been priceless on your tombstone. Where is this place?"

"Make a right at the Piggly Wiggly up there, then follow the road for another mile."

We were quiet then and I was glad. I didn't want to talk about it anymore, still seething.

"Right here." He directed us to a dirt lot that served as parking.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Not in Kansas. We cool, E? I know nothing about this night puts me in your good graces. It sounded good in my head when I first thought of it."

_'E', not Gentleman Ed_. I killed the engine and took note of the nervous Nelly in the passenger seat, his head thrown back against the seat rest. Absurd was the word of the day.

"I wouldn't want to be in your head."

He turned with a wry grin. "No. You wouldn't."

We sat unmoving while I got myself in check.

"It's not like you didn't have fun with Tanya, right? I heard through the door, man. You were busy getting it – "

"No." My voice was stern.

"You mean, you weren't – "

"I had no interest in her, Emmett."

"So you – "

"Chatted, cooked, and ate her meatloaf."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Don't even consider that a sexual innuendo. I had no intentions."

"But – "

"Nope, wrong."

"Are you – "

"Not gay, either."

"But you've been with – "

"Never been with a girl, nope."

"Not even a little?"

"Pure as snow over here."

"But you don't look like – "

"A nerd, a loser, a bumbling idiot? Nope, I'm just me and before you ask, I'll say it only once: I can have girls if I want, but I'm saving myself for the right girl. End of story."

If Emmett was a hot-air balloon, my declaration was the needle and, boy, did it feel good to see him uncomfortable for once.

He exhaled a long breath before meeting my steady gaze. "Last time I heard of a guy saving himself was when a preacher dipped his head in the river and declared his new state of grace."

"I'm not a religious man, but to each their own."

His head dropped to his chin and he shook his head. He slapped his knee. "Damn."

That was the end of the conversation. "We good?"

"We're good. We'll be a whole lot better with a beer, though."

"You're still buying," I told him, glad we found our rickety places again.

His smile was wide. "It's the least I can do."

* * *

><p>Riley's was a subterranean watering hole beneath a cigar shop and hardware store in a non-descript strip mall. The bar wasn't too far from campus, but it wasn't a campus bar, either. A side door, painted red, opened to stairs winding down into a basement with low ceilings held up by wooden beams and exposed brick. We bee-lined it for the oak bar. The place sported an old-school jukebox with pages that flipped horizontally, and a quarter played you two songs. I fell in love with it right away.<p>

"What if they ID us?" I whispered over my shoulder.

"They know me already, c'mon." Round tables sat empty on either side of the aisle. Friday night, but it was early yet.

At the bar, by his lonesome, a pale, corduroy-coated guy nursed a beer and a shot. Emmett greeted him. "Marcus. Why are you drinking alone on a 'date night'?"

"Funny, Junior. I thought you had to learn to carry the one before they let you in college."

"Nope, we have calculators now."

Marcus shook his head and got the bartender's attention, "Cindy, get these boys their first round, on me. 'To the future of our country.'" He toasted us and swigged his shot without further ado.

Emmett pulled out a stool. "Marcus is in the English department." We sat at the opposite end of the bar, facing the frog-eyed old geezer with the bulbous nose of a drunkard and the scarf of an academic.

Marcus' face was dour in his beer. "He's still trying to figure out whether 'to be' or 'not to be'."

"You mean with the living?" I sliced a finger across my throat.

"No, man," Em laughed. "With his wife."

"Cindy, we'll take two beers and two shots of whiskey." The bar was cozy-dim and I slowly started to relax.

We got our drinks. "To Cindy," he said. "The finest woman I know."

Taking Em's lead, I held my shot up in the direction of the bartender with an 'I don't give a fuck' twist of her lips. I liked her already.

"To Cindy," I piped.

We drank our whiskey. I held my chest, fighting the gasoline going down.

"So tell me about this, Gentleman Ed."

I chased the burn with a swig of beer. "What do you want to know?"

"How does this work? How do you find 'the one'? You're telling me she'll walk across the room and you'll just know?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead. I'm just weeding through what I don't like, figured it's a start."

After the day I had, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about my dream girl. My buddy looked into his beer like he was working on a mathematical equation meant to explain the bizarre phenomenon that was me.

"I'm not saying there's a science to it, maybe it comes from the sky or maybe I'm crazy, but I'm freer than I've ever been just thinking about it."

"Had I known, I wouldn't have taken you to Irina's. I wouldn't have put you in that position."

"I would have still been pissed if you took me there, virgin or not."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

I knew he meant it. I don't think he was ever told 'no' in regards to what you can and what you can't do with women. I may not have had _the knowledge_, but common sense got me far enough.

"Water under the bridge."

"You're not afraid of anything, are you?"

I put my beer bottle down and wiped my hand on my jeans. "What do you mean?"

"You, this, right here. You don't worry about what people think. To do what you're doing, that's gotta be like "No Fear". I'm not talking about personalized mud flaps with a cartoon Calvin pissing on your parade. I'm talking about living life on your terms, as it comes."

He had leaned into me, whispering a confession, as if he found a brother in solidarity. Or maybe he wanted to prove he had something to contribute to our friendship.

He told me his story.

It happened that Emmett was on track to earn a football scholarship, until one night he tore his ACL when his right foot crashed down and pivoted tragically on the goal line. It was a catch for the ages, having gripped the ball off his helmet, the smile on his face faltered when he heard the snapping muscle before the defensive mountain crushed him. It was cause for celebration, his touchdown. His team celebrated on the sidelines where he would end up the rest of the season after he was carried off on a stretcher. He helped them advance to a championship.

His ACL was replaced and his knee made a full recovery the next year, or so they thought.

What Emmett failed to convey to his mother after his physical therapist cut short his appointments earlier than scheduled (the newly-wedded man had cruise ship tickets after all) was that the pain lingered. He plastered on a strained smile climbing the stairs in his childhood home. He dutifully climbed the work ladder on days he had to coax his carpenter father off the roof, returning for the cooler of lukewarm red, white, and blue cans of beer. 'Waste not, want not', was his daddy's way.

"They all wanted me to play again my junior year. Hell. I wanted to play again my junior year."

But a moment of clarity stared him in the face one October morning.

"Coach had benched me. During practice, I no longer exploded on the run like I had before my injury. I had nothing better to do, so I decided to do something I was good at. I went deer hunting.

"It was a Saturday morning, and the whole damn animal population was awake before the sun came up. We lived on a small acre farm, mainly produce for the neighborhood market, nothing special. I suited up, ready to go, checked and re-checked my provisions and gear. I made myself a sandwich and filled up my canteen and headed out on my own.

"That was the first and last time I went hunting alone. Those first steps on the trail, after I parked my truck, made me skittish. I wore my headlamp (the sun wasn't over the ridge yet) and followed a game trail I had memorized since I was six years old.

"Do you know how loud it is hiking on your own? You wince at your own breathing. Every footstep on that frosty road was louder than an avalanche. I'd make a lousy tracker, I thought to myself. I was just branching off the Government Trail when I saw what I was looking for.

"I came upon a deer, a straggler. I'd already passed his family a quarter mile back – there's always one left behind, ignorant of everything but their favorite plant. It was a perfect shot but I didn't have it in me to take it. My knee was throbbing from the cold air and that bit of stalling had me thinking: I can't take the white tail, he's just minding his business. I let it go. I didn't know what I was looking for.

"I kept going, aimlessly hiking, having nothing to go back home for, no college aspirations. As much as my parents wanted it, I didn't have it anymore. No recruiter was going to bother with me; I'd lost all my juice.

"The sun came up over the ridge and I found a spot to eat my sandwich, feeling sorry for myself. I sat on a rock, overlooking nothing but a screen of trees and bushes – I was too pissy to hit up a better view.

"That's when I heard it, a rustling to my right, no louder than a chipmunk tearing plastic wrap, you know? But what I saw was no fucking chipmunk; no, that'd be too fucking easy. Chipmunks don't have black fur.

"A black bear.

"I was stone; I only dared move my eyes. In my woe, I didn't see the claw mark on the very tree next to me. A claw mark was the bear's tell, and I was too lost in my own head to notice.

"Do I move, or do I sit still?

"Now, here's the thing: all of my life I'd been taught you make a racket if a black bear becomes aggressive. _You're_ supposed to attack _him._ Now tell me something, what's the first thing you'd do if you saw a bear?"

"I'd shit myself."

"Exactly. I had seen a bear before but never directly under my nose. I should have been terrified. Did you know my fingers itched to reach out, just slowly reach out, and touch its pelt? The bear was licking his paw like I didn't exist. Or maybe he was hungry. Bears are always hungry. Did he smell my ham sandwich?

"Man, Gentleman Ed, I swear I heard the earth move, I heard every ant, and I smelled what my furry buddy shat that morning. My skin crawled and my bum knee started to twitch, giving me away. The bear heard it, his snout flared and he grunted, but the strangest thing happened."

"What happened?"

"His beady brown eyes caught mine. We were as close as you and I right here. We stared at each other in silence."

The intensity of Emmett's posture and his leaned-in recitation relaxed infinitesimally as he studied my face for signs of distress or mockery. I kept my features blank and nodded for him to continue.

"I'm going to tell you something that sounds crazy. He looked…he looked to me like he had been crying."

"Crying?" I had raised my voice and Emmett's hand shot out, stilling me by the shoulder. He hushed me and gave the bar a once over before resuming in a whisper.

"He was…mopey, if you can believe it. We were two sad creatures in the forest sharing a moment. I know it sounds plum dumb, but I was struggling between two instincts, fight or flight."

"What did you do?"

"I kept my eyes on him like there was string between us. I was too scared to look away, though it's what they tell you to do. I rose slowly, backed up, counting my breaths, and put my two feet on the trail facing the way I came. Meanwhile, the bear kept with the stare-off contest, huffed noisily through his black nose and watched me walk away. It took everything I had not to run, it felt wrong, like it would have broken our bond."

"You're telling me the bear didn't try anything, and you just walked away."

Emmett sank back into his stool, relieved. "Yup."

I contemplated the meaning of his story. He drank his beer with his eyes on me, checking for my reaction. If I thought my features were bland, Emmett proved me wrong when he spoke again. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

In a way, I did. I didn't want to say anything, having no explanation for it.

"I know it sounds like I lost my marbles, but I swear, me and that bear _knew_ each other. We had a communion. There. That's the God's honest truth. I walked out of the forest carrying my pack, my gun, and wearing my hunter's vest like I was _one_ with the forest, not the predator. The deer didn't shoot off, Edward! You understand? Every creature acted like we were lost cousins or something."

"You were one with the animals."

He nodded vigorously, collecting steam on the idea. "The whole damn forest sang and fucking chirped like I was no more harmful than…than…"

"…a chipmunk."

He laughed and slapped me on the arm. He called Cindy over for two more shots and beers.

"I never told anyone, not even my own ma. By the time I made it home, I had my mind made up. I quit the team. I was done being beholden to that stale dream. I bucked up, kept up my grades, and here I am."

He shrugged, lifted his shot, and declared, "'No Fear', Edward."

I drank mine down with a grimace. "You get used to it," Emmett wheezed like someone knocked the wind out of him.

"That's a wicked story."

"Yeah, but, what do you suppose it means? It has to mean something, right?"

If he wanted to command my full attention, he had it. He needed a reason, an explanation as if he were _chosen_ to make it out of that forest alive. I would have chalked it up to dumb luck, but my friend didn't want to hear such a thing. I got it.

"Maybe it was your spirit animal."

"You think?"

I didn't know. I was making it up as I went along for his sake.

"Some Native American cultures believe that a man has an animal that guides him through life and into death. The animal, in your case, was a bear representing who you are."

Emmett silently processed my sage bullshit. After a good five minutes, he said, "So like a bear, I'm strong."

"Yes."

"I rule my domain, I am feared."

I thought he was stretching the theory a bit, but whatever got him through the day. "Yes."

"I like that."

"Of course, it could also signify that you're lost in the wilderness."

"The wilderness," he repeated reverently.

"And if I could suggest a way to get out of it…"

"Go on, tell me."

"Bears should never, ever, under any circumstances play with cougars." I smiled because I was getting good and toasty after all the shots we had consumed. Emmett caught wind of my joke. He laughed. "She was a gazelle! She was a beauty!"

He went on to describe in great wistful detail Irina's abundant attributes for the rest of the night.

His bear story stuck with me. I didn't necessarily think that he had a bear's spirit; if anything it was the boundless spirit of a Tasmanian Devil. I had a sinking feeling – fraught with delight and nerves – that I was to serve as witness to his whirling craziness in all its entertaining forms.

I made a private promise to myself that I would look out for him, the sad black bear, lost in the wilderness. But then who isn't lost in one way or another?

* * *

><p>Riley's on a Friday night was a veritable stew of Tallahassee locals including, but not limited to, blue-collar eight-to-fivers, migrant workers, sour professors, and even a bachelorette party of all things. The bride-to-be wore a string of candy around her neck and a shirt with glittered lettering that read: <em>Eat Me<em>. She was a crowd pleaser. Even Marcus eked out a daffy grin after successfully plucking candy from her neck.

We drank pitchers until I lost count. We recounted our earlier exploits to anyone who would listen. Their reactions varied from bored to dubbing us "young, dumb, and full of cum" to which I toasted all three vigorously.

The bachelorette party commandeered the jukebox and I found myself singing the cheesiest love songs at the top of my lungs with the rest of the watery-eyed denizens. I may not have known all the words to_ Islands in the Stream,_ but I whistled delightedly when Emmett grabbed the reins on our duet.

By last call, we were staggeringly plastered.

I learned that night I was a happy and punchy drunk.

We stumbled out into the pitch-dark morning in glorious laughter when Emmett inadvertently turned the night around.

"Edward, you'll find your girl and she'll be better than the blonde Jezebel that broke your heart, buddy."

"What?" I laughed and squinted under a palmed-awning, searching for Emmett's Volvo. I smiled, _our_ Volvo. Shit. I was prepared to call dibs on the backseat.

"I'm referring to the gal in the picture you carry around."

I turned around and found two Emmetts. Four, if I used both eyes.

I wavered on my feet, brows furrowed, adding up words that sparked a live wire from the bottom of my spine. I put the images together…

Blonde.

A creased photo of Rose and me with prom smiles wedged inside my journal. I wore a grin, she wore pink. The image made me smile, but then I remembered I never shared Rose with Emmett. I never told him about my best friend back home because I couldn't get past his womanizing ways, fun for him, but fucking douchey, if you asked me.

I hated her name coming out of his mouth as if he could contaminate her just by whispering it.

"What did you say? Jezebel?"

I squared up like I knew what I was doing, taking stock of the wall of muscle in front of me. I had height, but he had the brawn and a fullback's training.

"Relax, man."

Another wave hit me, a carried-over jealousy of his simple life, his simple 'jaunt-thru' life, impulsive, and reckless, and a shameful part of me coveted it.

I pushed him.

"Hey, back off, I was kidding."

"Don't fucking kid." I pushed again and he stumbled on his heel. "Don't fucking say Rose's name."

"I didn't say her name."

"Don't think about her."

I was bullying him. I didn't know who I was. I didn't care for beauty on that inky morning. I was brutal and homesick, a red tide cresting behind my eyes, whiskey-fueled and addled from a lifetime of stress, frustration, and the lonely confinement of my heart.

I became volatile at everything and nothing, and Emmett and that fucking dimple used to right wrongs even then as I staggered into his line of vision, his disappearing smile.

I lifted my fist into the sweet-soft night and planted it square on his jaw.

I managed to nudge him. I had no power. He cradled his jaw in the palm of his hand – eyes saucer-wide – as if he were the last one to hear the bad news.

I was going to hate myself in the morning. This was going to hurt but I didn't have it in me to care. Emmett's eyes narrowed in on my quiet plea. He understood.

It was no longer about him. The context of the night was all mine, judged by the glaring presence of the cheeky moon and stars and the audience of trees that boxed us in the dirt lot. I wanted to knockout all the troubles inside me. I was on a mission.

I wanted to surrender my old skin and start all over.

He was into it now, crouching. "You want to throw down?"

I was panting, tired of fear and frustration. I choked when I said the next words, but I answered like I was committing to the rest of my life.

"Let's go."

It was my first fight, if you could call it a fight. We wrestled on that dirt lot, a dogfight, a fight free of meaning, a fight free of winning. What I lacked in strength, I made up in intensity. The first hit I took from his meaty fist was gratifyingly painful, a physical justice, a blinding relief from the insufferable lonely world. Mine and everyone else's.

We went on for what seemed like forever, and never once did I land a straight blow. Emmett was fast, but I was a scrappy sonofabitch with accumulated anger. I knew that he was dealing me blows softened by sympathy, so I goaded him worse than an incessant gnat.

We were tumbling on the ground when I sobered, rolling on sand and rock. The pain made itself acutely present. Mercy arrived in the form of an elbow to the ribs. That did me in.

I rolled over onto a grassy patch, tucked in and wheezing moistly through my mouth. I swallowed blood from a cut on my upper lip and the taste gagged me.

I threw up and winced and coughed through my efforts.

I rolled on my back, a plump lump of useless mass. My eyes, milky and blinking, were operating at least.

I mapped out the constellations. Perseus, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major.

Cygnus. The swan, the Northern Cross, tilted like an X-mark on a studded map.

I wanted to close my eyes where I lay, and dream.

A shadow fell across my face. I was secretly thrilled to see Emmett bent over, catching his breath.

"You have a death wish?" His voice was incredibly patient.

I grunted in the negative.

"You can't fight for shit." He seemed surprised.

I grunted in the affirmative.

He plopped down beside me and took a load off.

It was the deep-end of night when the whole world seemed submerged in dreaming, Emmett and I were alone, floating on peaceful consciousness. Crickets trilled to their music and the wind-shaken oaks shivered above us. The grass tickled my neck.

We were spaced out, in our own worlds, evening out our breaths and quietly taking stock of the physical damage. I was re-counting my toes when he spoke real soft like a boy with an invisible friend.

"My dad drinks. He has ever since I've known him. Like a weekend drunk, I guess. Not a mean drunk, he just likes to take longer holidays than most people and sometimes he stays out for days until my mom has to go looking for him. I can't stand it, but somehow she likes to keep him around."

I cleaned my mouth with the collar of my shirt and decided I was an ass for underestimating him.

"My mom left when I was twelve. My dad's still in love with her and some days I wish I could knock some sense into him."

"That sucks."

"Yeah." We were silent again. I figure I had to make a better show at trust. "And, look, Emmett, that girl – "

His palms went up, stopping me. "I don't need to know."

"It's alright, I just…I feel protective of her. She's my best friend."

Emmett looked at me like my head came off my shoulders. I know he saw the picture of two people like they were physically suited for each other. He probably assumed she broke my heart.

"If you don't mind my saying so, man."

"Get it off your chest. Just this once."

"She's hot. She's…a beauty…she's a siren, Edward."

"I get it, jeez." Emmett quieted with a grin on his face. "She doesn't sing to me, Hercules. It's just never been that way with us. She's a good friend."

"I'm sorry I called her a Jezebel."

"I'm sorry I punched you."

I sat up and pulled my knees in, everything was creaky. He nodded seriously as if nothing more needed to be said about that.

It was getting late; I could smell the brisk air shift into early morning.

Emmett was ruminating next to me; I could practically hear it. He blew a breath through his mouth and slapped the ground, arriving at a conclusion.

"We're going to teach you to fight," he said, determined. "No offense, but that's a lot of sexual tension you're walking around with." He got up and dusted off his pants, "I don't have time to kick your ass every day."

I laughed and it hurt. He was right. I was dogged by female frustrations when I didn't have a real girl in sight. The irony wasn't lost on me and the lingering emptiness reappeared. I had to find a way to channel my ceaseless frustrations. I sighed and remembered that's what tomorrows are for.

I pointed to my busted lip. "That's nothing. You hit like a girl."

He laughed and held his hand out. He helped me up. "Thanks."

"Feel better?"

My body was cut, bruised, and scratched. My face was newly grotesque, and it was as if all of my limbs had been properly rearranged.

I had never felt more alive.

"Like a champ."

* * *

><p>AN: There was great discussion over this chapter and many re-writes of the ending. WriteOnTime restrained me from abusing the word, "tussle", which, sadly and rightly, had to be cut. faireyfan kept this chapter from reading like a sitcom pilot. They both made me laugh (at myself) often.


	5. Chapter 5

Advisement: Long chapter ahead. No rest stops for the next thirteen thousand words. You may want to pack a lunch.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, Goodbye – The Wilderness – Pissing Contests – Midnight in New Orleans – The Zen of Skinny Dipping<strong>

* * *

><p>Rose shut the trunk door. Palming a tent above her eyes, she assessed the morning weather.<p>

It was hazy hot.

We found ourselves in a parking lot at Sky Meadows State Park in northern Virginia. Emmett and I were stepping onto the Appalachian Trail for our third summer.

This go-round, we had agreed to hike for three weeks. My forty-pound bag bounced on my back. I felt light as a feather and I danced in anticipation.

Rose crossed her arms and leaned against her car. "I can't believe you guys are doing this again."

I could. I waited every year for this. I grinned.

It was the summer before the start of our senior year, the last one to idly savor before we slipped off the mantle of undergrads.

Emmett was due any minute. It was agreed, just like every year, to meet at a predetermined rendezvous point.

Rose was quiet. She stared intently at the road leading into the parking lot. It seemed as if we were always saying goodbye.

"You going back to your mom's when you get back?"

"Yeah, I don't have a choice." She shrugged. "It is what it is. I'll just commute." Her resolved but shaky smile spoke volumes.

She had moved to New York for a year and lived on Avenue A across the street from a hipster saloon where she slung drinks while auditioning for anything and everything, be it in the Theater District or a church basement. She hustled and it paid off. She got on an off-off Broadway show and once again experienced the rush of the floodlights and the pounding of her heart to the beat of applause. She had it in her grasp, but her dream deferred to her mom's neediness. She had returned to Mrs. Hale.

Rose found work in Buffalo, shuffling papers and answering phones at an indie-run theater company. Their seasons were known for "accessibly controversial" productions.

Like, _Hair,_ for instance.

Emmett had come for a visit one year, and his stay coincided with opening night. Rose was the lead.

I donned my best impression of a supporting friend, but inwardly cringed at the thought of Rose gyrating on stage like the sexually liberated, hedonistic, raunchy hippie that she was set to play. The storyline was infamous for its opening act: barely covered or nude actors dancing and simulating sex to _Age of Aquarius_.

I had no problem with the story. I had a problem with Rose _in_ the story.

I told her as much, something to the tune of: "You're like my sister!"

She dismissed me with a pinch on my cheek. I considered distracting her with blatant ogling just to make her squirm, but I didn't have the stomach for it.

"I don't know anything about this musical. Never heard of it before. Have you?"

Emmett tagged along for opening night, sweating like he was about to keel over. In the lobby, he mindlessly snacked on popcorn and swigged from a water bottle, knee bouncing.

"Yeah, I've seen it," I grumbled.

Emmett wiped his brow for the fifth time. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He drank more water. "Real thirsty today. It's hot, right?"

I surveyed the scene, the audience was donned in blazers and shawls. Only Emmett had taken off his coat and loosened his tie. He was damp at the neck. "It's freezing, man. What is wrong with you?"

He looked at me as if for the first time. "Huh?"

I gave up.

A bored kid walked into the lobby and yelled for the audience to take its place.

We were front row center in the black box theater. We couldn't have gotten any closer if we stuck our hands out. The thought prompted me to put them in my pockets, keep my head down, and close my eyes.

When the strains of the opening number came on, Emmett whispered, "What's wrong?"

The full implications of that very moment hit me. He had no idea he was about to undergo the same Rose introduction I had so many years ago. He had never seen more of her than the picture I groused over on the night we rumbled. I had no clue how he would react.

I panicked and leaned over just as the actors popped out.

Too late. I closed my eyes, practically holding my breath.

Emmett gasped. Shit. I kept my head down, concerned about him as he made whining noises that were annoying me. I stomped his foot.

"Ow!"

"Eyes down!"

"But – "

"Down!"

And that's how we saved our embarrassment by a small percentage. Emmett had looked at the same goods I'd seen four years prior. Lord, did she always have to make the same naked entrance?

After the show, we caught up and she scolded me for missing the opening number. When she accused me of falling asleep, I told her I wasn't interested in seeing her naked, to which she reprimanded me and Emmett. "We were wearing leotards, you idiot." I was appropriately chagrined. During that time, Emmett kept out of the conversation until Rose coaxed a few words out of him. He wasn't chatty around her; he was reserved but polite, unlike the Emmett I knew.

If he was growing fond of her, I wouldn't know what to do. It was safer keeping them apart, like having pieces of me scattered about. I liked it that way. Besides, what can two people do when they have responsibilities and geography of their own? I wasn't going to get involved in it. If Emmett wanted to gain her attention, I figured he would have done it on his own good time.

At any rate, he had missed his opportunity. Over the years, Rose had gained a boyfriend.

I looked at my watch. Emmett was running late and it was getting unbearably hot in that parking lot. The shade swallowing the trail called to me.

I tugged Rose's hair. She had shortened it so it brushed her shoulders. It may have made her look older, but she was still a smartass with me.

"This Royce guy."

She pulled her attention away from the entrance to the lot. She glanced at me suspiciously. "What about him?"

"He treat you well?"

Rose shrugged, turning away. We didn't talk guys often, and I had nothing to contribute about my loveless situation.

"Hey, what's up? Is he not buying you flowers after every performance or something?"

She laughed. "No, not that, you goof. He's fine," she finished weakly.

"Fine? Fine sounds horrible. C'mon, tell me."

"I don't know. You really want to hear this?"

I grew serious then. "Sure I do. What's up?"

She sighed. "I don't think it's going to last. He can be so…mean," she said, as if the concept surprised her.

"What do you mean, _mean_?" I lifted off the car and paced, plotting how I could catch him with his guard down.

"Calm down, slugger. Not like that!" She slapped my arm. "I'm referring to his stinginess. Do you know, he never tips over ten percent? He parks five blocks away just to avoid paying for a valet, and when he says 'Let's go for coffee', it's _always_ Dutch! I mean, weeks of dating, who does that? A mean person, that's who. Just miserable on the inside, that leads to nothing but trouble."

_That was all? _Thank God. I shouldn't have been worried about her one bit.

She kept up her anti-Royce tirade and I nodded and agreed dutifully to all the dastardly, grievous gestures of his that had her spitting fire. He did sound like a douche and I told her as much. I told her, if he so much as made her cry I'd fly back home and kick his ass.

At my threat, she laughed, but when I didn't join in the fun, she sobered up. She considered me silently, her eyes pulled me back to the night we met in her star-covered bedroom. This time I didn't budge under her even gaze.

Her voice was soft. "You have changed, Edward Cullen."

She wasn't referring to my physical appearance; she had witnessed the evolution of my form year after year, constantly commenting on how much taller I was getting or how much muscle I had built up from all the training. A fact, while true, I nonetheless countered by stressing she was simply getting shorter.

Perhaps I was different from the awkward teenager she met in high school, but it was a progression I didn't think about until she mentioned it. And frankly, it was too early in the morning for self-contemplation.

I shrugged. "If you say so, short stuff." I dodged her girly punches and caught her in a headlock when Emmett's car pulled into the parking lot.

I let go of Rose and she stomped on my foot. Cheater.

Emmett's mom – who asked us to address her as Miss Martha because "Only Emmett's grandmamma was Mrs. McCarty, sugar, and she's gone to her happy place, six feet under" – sat in the passenger seat beside him.

We started for them, but abruptly paused mid-stride halfway across the parking lot. Emmett and his mother were arguing and our only option was to wait it out. Of course, it seemed from where we stood that he was trying to drive a point home and she was shaking her head and pulling rank to quiet him down.

Mr. McCarty, aka Big Poppa, was the point of their contention. It didn't take a telepath to guess what they were talking about. He'd gone on another drinking binge again, and Emmett was arguing for Miss Martha to cut her losses. Emmett's resentment of his daddy had grown to near unmanageable proportions since he had gone to college.

Big Poppa was anything but manageable. He was a stout man, and shorter than his wife. Emmett took his mom's height and his dad's sturdy structure. But that was where Em drew the line at similarities to Big Poppa.

Never violent with his wife, but a disappointment nonetheless, he'd disappear for days, leaving the commissions unfulfilled while Miss Martha stressed about the next mortgage payment and light bill. Big Poppa always handled it one way or the other, finishing what he started, but he never did it the painless way. Poor woman just wanted to quit riding the edge with him, fearing he'd slip and fall one day, taking her with him. She never outwardly complained about it except in that off-hand way, as though she were bred for that kind of burden. Neither Emmett, nor I, understood her.

She defended Big Poppa too much for Emmett's liking.

When we heard the car doors slam, we turned to greet them.

Miss Martha was a smartly dressed matron in perfectly polished white sneakers, pressed khaki pants that sat high on her waist, and a properly tucked-in t-shirt with a Tennessee Titans logo on the front. She wore her hair short and gray. Her eyes turned up in pleasure behind her glasses when she noticed us. I liked Miss Martha; she always had a smile for me.

Emmett's place in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee was our last stop after we got off the trail and before we were shuttled off to school. During my stay, Big Poppa would greet me on the front porch with high fists, taunting me for a round, testing my boxing skills was how he put it. I'd humor him and mock jab, but eventually dance and feign until Miss Martha called for me from her kitchen window.

She'd prop me on a stool after a big hug and ordered me to sit still. She'd then proceed to pepper me with questions about school, or leading ones about Emmett (as if I'd tattle on my friend), all while she cooked and ambled about the kitchen like my fantasy of a perfect mother.

I took to her easily and understood why Emmett was so much his mama's boy. I'd let her adopt me any day, but then those thoughts always trailed after a week's worth of her culinary influence. She'd take me through a trip of her South: homemade biscuits with sausage gravy, baskets of fried chicken, fried green tomatoes, fried okra, collard greens, cornbread, shrimp and grits, chicken and dumplings, pecan pie, strawberry-rhubarb pie, peach pie, lemon pie, coconut cream pie, blueberry pie, and fudge.

Those were the days of summer when I napped in the middle of the day, too hot to go on my run and too full to care. It was a good thing my visits were short-lived.

It was a good thing Emmett and I hiked the Appalachian Trail right before.

As usual, Miss Martha pressed a container of cookies in my hands. The package was hefty. I peeked under the lid and caught a whiff of oatmeal raisin, my favorite. I grinned.

"That's so you boys have something good to eat," she said by way of introduction. Food was how she spoke. "You always come back too skinny. C'mon, give me a hug."

She put a good grip around my sides – the pack hindered her from hugging me completely. She patted my shoulders. "What do they feed you in Tallahassee? You're hard as a rock, almost as big as my Emmett."

"No one's as big as Emmett, Miss Martha. And it's good to see you again." I uncovered the cookies and stuffed one in my mouth. Before I could think things through and mind my manners, I spoke with a mouthful. "Thanks for the cookies."

She smiled, satisfied. "How much do you weigh now?"

"One seventy-five," I told her, proud that I had topped out at 6'2".

"You're no longer boys," she sighed, stepping back. "Those are oatmeal and Emmett has the container of fudge." It was a well-known fact that no one hiking the AT ever desired extra weight in their pack, but another ten pounds of baked goods we could handle, easy.

I stuffed two more cookies in my mouth, chewing dryly; I was starving, and anyway, I thought Emmett would find it funny. I noticed him doing everything but looking at Rose from the passenger side of the car. He fussily strapped and unstrapped his pack as if he couldn't decide how he wanted it. He hadn't come around to say hello. Meanwhile, the object of his obvious disinterest observed him curiously. Christ! You'd think it was fifth grade. I swallowed too quickly and choked, alerting them to my presence – nice of them not to let a friend die by cookie. Emmett came around and pounded on my back. "Damn, Ed, they aren't that dry." Screeching came from Rose and Miss Martha, squawking panicked because I couldn't chew like a civilized person. Man, I couldn't wait to get in the wilderness.

I recovered, coughed, "Wrong pipe," and pointed to my throat. Someone handed me a bottled water. I drank it. A collective groan of relief came from the group.

Miss Martha, minding her manners, turned to Rose. "It's so good to see you again, dear. One of these days we'll have to visit longer than these short spells. Emmett says the nicest things about you."

Rose raised an eyebrow. "He does?"

"Mom."

"Oh, hush, Emmett. Weren't you raving about her acting the other day? I swear, he thinks you're the next Julia Roberts, child."

And with that, Miss Martha did the unthinkable: she made Rose blush. Her color matched the tips of Emmett's ears and I wanted to laugh at his expense.

"So tell me, how's your mother…"

This was what I hated about these reunions, always with the talking. Rose met the McCarty's the first year she dropped me off, and Miss Martha took an instant liking to her, which caused Emmett to clam up more so. And every year, we did this dance, catch up and talk what seemed like for ages before we could get a move on.

Finally, Emmett cleared his throat. He looked like a rash had crawled up his ass.

"It's supposed to rain," he gestured to the horizon. "We need to make good time. Bye, mom."

Emmett hugged and kissed his dear mother but not before giving her a private, pointed look. She dismissed him with a wave. "Edward, tell my son everything will be alright. He listens to you."

"Um…Emmett…what your mom said."

"'What your mom said,' is not what I said, son. Say it right."

Exasperated and impatient, I blurted it out. "Emmett, it'll be alright."

"You could both stop being so darn smart with your elders. Go, both of you. Call me when you're ready for me to pick you up."

Miss Martha turned to Rose. "It's nearing afternoon. Let's grab some lunch. I know a place with the best pecan pie."

Without a thought, as if she were Miss Martha's very own little evil progeny, Rose chirped, _chirped, _an easy, "Sure!"

"MOM!"

I punched Rose's shoulder and instructed her to call me if she needed self-defense lessons; she cried like a girl and told me I was no longer skinny enough to manhandle her.

Her and Emmett's parting typically went something like this:

Rose: Hi.

Emmett: Hi

Rose: How've you been?

Emmett: Good.

An awkward silence and then there was me, wasting one of my three wishes for a piano to fall on both of their heads.

It was always Rose who broke the tension with a weird confused look on her face. "Okay, then. See you."

And Emmett's response on a good day would be, "Okay, yeah. Take care."

But on a bad day, which I gathered was the case at the trailhead, he mumbled, "Yeah," still as a statue.

I sent the ladies an apologetic smile and took pity on him. I put a hand on his shoulder, waved at Rose and Miss Martha, and turned him toward the path.

It was going to be okay, I thought, everything that's poking about in your soul gets ironed out on the AT.

* * *

><p>When Emmett first suggested we hike the Appalachian Trail our freshman year, I thought he was insane. Isn't it <em>long, <em>I had asked. He smiled, flashing the dimple, and added that it was the length of thirteen states. My body language told him he was full of shit to think we would do that, and before my mouth produced the words, he assured me his plan was to hike a small part of it. I came to find out he meant a tiny, microscopic stretch after we had procured a map and realized the astounding scale of the trail.

It spanned from Georgia to Maine. An adventure of that scope would have taken us seven months to complete. Not only did we not have that sort of time on our hands, we were not mad enough for it. We were content to walk our small share of the trail – three weeks would net us hundreds of miles and we would still be in the state of Virginia and we called that sufficient.

We were content to leave the daily chatter behind, our commitments and obligations, too. After all, there was nothing to be done on the trail but walk uphill, some down. We didn't waste breaths on talking our first days because we conserved our energy to acclimate, reacquainting our bodies to the lung-burning, rapid-fire beating of our hearts, the lead in our thighs. We concentrated on the cacophony of the wilderness – birdcalls, frogs, game, and the rushing leaves. We didn't talk because the wilderness spoke to us, and besides, it was a more romantic reason than, say, conserving our lung capacity.

After thirteen-mile days, we had just enough energy to set up our tents and stuff our bellies with noodles before turning in. We were excellent hikers, and at our pace, it meant communication was relegated to grunting and pointing and the occasional – "Will you look at that?" – should a particularly fascinating view or animal cross our line of vision. We gauged time without a watch; no need for one. Time fell away from us.

In the mornings we woke with the sun, breaking fast with an energy bar and a watery cup of coffee. Then we hiked, maybe a stop for lunch, and hike again – the white arrow-tipped signs painted on trees every few miles kept us pointed in the right direction. We stopped when the sun dipped in its own fatigue and the forest shadows loomed before the night.

That August, we were plagued by a relentless sun. Because we were in the Blue Ridge Mountains, that meant we had ample foliage overhead, granting respite, but it also meant endless stretches on rocky hillsides that were treacherous to our systems.

We were forced to travel shirtless. The strap around our torsos inevitably chafed our skin and – as I would often do on that trip – I quietly thanked Miss Martha for sneaking the most random shit in Emmett's bag. We found a pocket-sized tin of petroleum jelly to rub on our nipples. We slathered it on in eye-rolling relief. We drenched our t-shirts in water and wore them sheik-style to keep our domes cool.

Improvisation was the way of it.

When we reached a stream, we cleaned up as best we could, filled our water bottles and treated them with purification tablets. At shelters we bartered with other hikers for food when noodles became so tiresome I would have settled for a mud cake.

It was a week before we uttered more than a few worthwhile sentences. Whatever troubles rode on our shoulders that first week sloughed off as easy as sweat.

Or so I thought.

It was a Saturday, maybe. I wasn't sure. But it was afternoon; the sun was high. Day hikers clogged the trail, stopping abruptly, unmindful about stepping aside.

"I can't go on like this." Emmett walked off the trail and took off his pack.

"There's a shelter a few miles from here, says on the map there's a well."

Emmett nodded; he fished his water bottle from his pack. He lifted it high above his mouth and a few drops landed on his eye. I laughed. "You have shitty aim."

He really was tired if he had no comeback. I didn't blame him; I was tired and knew if I sat down I wouldn't want to stand up again.

I passed him my water. "Thanks. Yeah, sounds like a good plan, the well."

The trail was a traffic jam.

"Wait it out?"

There was no way we'd get very far anyway. It was as good an excuse as any to give in to my exhaustion.

"Yeah, let's do." We were under the cover of trees, grateful for the shade. I set myself down on a carpet of brittle pine needles while Emmett caught me up on his summer.

"I told my mother she should go live with Uncle Jack and Aunt Chrissie."

"He the uncle who got you the job on the riverboat?"

"Same one."

"What about your dad?"

"He's a worthless piece of shit." It was rare for Emmett to be in a morose state of mind this far into our trip. I had a feeling he needed this break over a week ago. I cursed myself for not paying attention.

"Sorry, man. Has it gotten worse? He didn't lay a hand on her, did he?"

"That's not his style. It hasn't gotten worse but it hasn't gotten better, either. Same shit year after year. 'Babe, let's go get a nice meal, it's your birthday,' he'll say. She says, 'Stop, Big Poppa, or I'll have to change your name to Big Spender." And like every Mother's Day, Christmas, you name it, don't matter, he goes off and gets drunk. I don't want her around that. It kills me."

I knew it did. I had passed Emmett the phone on numerous occasions with Miss Martha on the other line. Each time he took her calls, he had to sit down and resign himself to another tale of his daddy's carousing ways, and every time he'd listen dutifully to his mother while she ranted. He repeated tirelessly, and pointlessly, his only solution: so leave him then.

"She doesn't look unhappy."

Emmett grunted. He knew it wasn't a disagreement. I referred to the wholesome façade she projected among her circle of friends. For all their troubles, she was a dedicated churchgoer, a book-club member, a booster, and beloved in her community. Emmett had explained that she never complained in polite company, just to her son. It was a fucked up burden to bear.

"You know what makes me feel real bad?" Emmett rested his arms over his knees. "I hate wishing that she'd leave me alone. I hate to think bad about my own mother, but sometimes all I want is for her to find someone else to gripe to. Does that make me a bad guy?"

"No."

He nodded, but didn't look at me. "All day yesterday, I kept myself busy plotting ways to have him killed or considering mama's life without him, you know?"

What I knew was that Emmett had no violence in him that reached beyond his dark fantasies. Neither of us did, but it was in the shadiest part of our hearts where we could keep a sane head.

"And it hit me last night. Maybe mama's happy living with him. I can't get her to leave him. She won't do it. You know what she told me? She said, 'Hush up, Emmett, your daddy's not perfect but he's the only one you got. I'm not perfect, either.' What am I supposed to do with that? Hot and cold, that woman. You tell me, how am I supposed to understand? Women, Gentlemen Ed, are certifiable. I could lock her up and she'd still find her way back to him and at the same time find me to bitch about it. I'm washing my hands of it." When he finished, he was riled up but renewed with vigor. Now that was the Emmett I knew.

"If you like," I volunteered, "I can have my people, you know," I pointed a finger to my temple, "take care of him." My grin matched my tone.

Emmett laughed. "That'd be too good for the sonofabitch, God help him. The road's clearing."

The trail was no longer jammed up. It was time to go, but man, I was so comfortable on that forest floor, I could have rolled in the dirt and fallen asleep like a possum. "Let's give it a few more minutes. I'm happy here," I said. I stretched my dusty legs.

"Okay." Emmett rooted around in his pockets and started in on a granola bar, chewing slowly. I ate my pasty peanut butter bar, satisfied in our silence.

The day was bending into the afternoon.

"How's your dad, Gentleman Ed? You haven't said one word about him since we started."

That was because I didn't have words to waste on him. But that's not what I said to Emmett. "He wants me to quit the gym, says he doesn't like Aro." I leaned against a rock, picking the burrs off my socks. "Says I spend too much time getting the – how did he put it – 'shit kicked out of me', when I should be studying more."

Emmett smiled. "Not one to beat around the bush, your dad. He's not impressed with your GPA even if it is a 4.0. What's he got against Aro, he hired you!"

"He doesn't much approve of my association with a bunch of ex-fighters, reminds him too much of his childhood, I don't know. Dad wants me to be a teacher or something, anything that doesn't involve punching a clock."

"Or punching his one and only, good-for-nothing son," he teased.

I didn't want to talk about it anymore. "No, I imagine he doesn't like that, either."

A breeze caught in the trees and they shivered above. The heat and tiredness, the long days of not talking, always on the move, were starting to catch up with me, and all I wanted right then was a long, delicious nap.

"Does he know you're sparring?"

Until Emmett cut straight to the chase.

"Hell, no. I couldn't tell him that's how I made money. No way. I told him I would major in Biology."

"You hate Biology! I thought you were going to sign up for English."

"We compromised. I'm minoring in English. Besides, at this point, I've got the requirements settled. Next year, it's independent study and finishing up lab classes and I'm done, finit, caput."

"Marcus."

"Yup."

"Can't believe that irritable geezer became your mentor. If you would have told me years ago that he'd send you to Aro's gym _and_ you'd be writing for him, I would have called you a liar."

I shrugged. No one who expects anything should be allowed to expect anything. That's a tidbit taught to me by the very Volturi brothers themselves, for ill or not, they had taken me under their wing and were as close to father figures as my real one. But I would never confess to Aro, Marcus, or Caius such a thing. They were too brass-knuckles for that kind of talk.

What I hadn't told anyone was that dad had returned mom's pictures to the mantle. It wasn't a shrine or anything, but it shocked me nonetheless. It was as if he had been waiting for me to leave so he could put her back up there and I didn't know how to feel about that.

I had fooled myself into believing that I had buried her memory deep, but she kept popping up and I didn't care for it. I rarely indulged in nostalgia like dad. Hell, I didn't think anyone could hold a candle longer than him and still survive the fire, but he did it and it saddened me that I could not for one second understand him. I should have felt closer to him, but I didn't.

I looked to the sky. "Do you see what I see?"

He did. "Cloud cover. I think that's our cue."

I did not want to get up, but I did, grumpily. "You ready?"

Emmett stood and stretched, his spine straighter and his countenance more buoyant than it had been for days. He strapped his pack on his back. "No," he replied, chipper. "But that doesn't mean shit, does it?"

We had a long trek ahead of us and whether we liked it or not, the trail wasn't going to pick us up and carry us. We had to do that for ourselves. With one last nod, I stepped aside and let Emmett take the lead.

* * *

><p>We were well into our second week hiking. Days prior, we had hitchhiked into the nearest town and spent a night and a day sleeping, eating everything off the diner menu like a pack of rabid wolves, and walking leisurely from shop to shop like real human beings. Long stretches of time with no company but your own sort of made a person wild. We felt like visitors from another planet, absorbing civilization with an enthralled detachment. It was heaven.<p>

I had showered and shaved my beard, even looking like a new man after days of grime and growth. Any longer and birds would have taken residence on my face.

Emmett, just because he could, went as far as getting a haircut, claiming he was no descendant of Paul Bunyan, and by God, if he wanted to pamper himself, he would.

Newly coiffed and re-energized, we took to the trail with fresh anticipation, especially since we added two more rest stop days to our itinerary. It cut the trip short, but we didn't care. We made up for our indulgence by adding extra miles every day and pushing our bodies to the breaking point. Once again, we resorted to caveman gestures for articulation.

Such was the case when Emmett threw a pebble at my pack to gain my attention. I turned around.

He pointed to a mossy path off the trail and motioned we should follow it. It was damp underfoot like stepping on a sponge. We walked a few yards. I heard the creek before I saw it. It rushed loudly, washing the rocks beneath it until they gleamed in a rainbow of color. A charming waterfall no wider than a door plunged into the creek. The spray reached us and it was cool and it was wonderful and it was another reason why we did the things we did, Em and I.

He reached for his zipper and I followed suit.

It was so beautiful we just had to relieve ourselves into it. Ben and Mike would have understood.

"What do you think they're up to?" asked Emmett. He had this uncanny ability to reach into my head.

"I'll guess something indoors and involving weed."

Emmett chuckled. "Don't ever repeat this, but I miss them."

I shook the last of it and zipped up. I smiled. I missed them, too, and told Emmett so.

"Look at it this way, when we get back to school, we'll all finally move off-campus. Mike told me before he left, they signed the lease."

"Same building?"

"Yup."

"Not next door, though."

"I don't think so."

"Good, cause his weed stinks."

"No shit."

"Those goofy bastards, they'd love this place."

I snorted. "Yeah, but not the hike."

"No, anything but that."

We became good friends with Mike and Ben our freshman year. They invited themselves on our first road trip and became permanent fixtures in the back seat of Emmett's Volvo whenever we ventured out of town.

The four of us drove the two hours to St. Augustine one holiday weekend because, "Cullen's got a bug up his ass for a pointy-bearded Spaniard who had one too many hits of opium and delusions of grandeur." That was typical Ben Cheney. This from a guy who stole dial-up from the phone company and figured out how to call long distance for free. He cracked it at the age of thirteen and ran a black market as his own long-distance carrier all through high school. It was also a sure way to meet girls, he once told me. It was his "edge".

"Cullen, in this world a man must rely on more than just his looks, no offense. A guy like me, not unattractive, no sign of acne, with a modest financial portfolio, has to fine-tune his 'edge'. He needs to stand apart from the boys. In school, I talked to girls all the time. I linked them up with their grannies and college boyfriends, but so what? I didn't sit with the losers cause I had found my 'edge'."

Ben had no delusions, but one mention of my curiosity for the fountain of youth and suddenly he thought it was funny to dump me with the likes of de Leon himself.

Truth was, the piddle of city water bubbling in a ten-by-ten hole in the ground no wider than a chamber pot put me in the dumps. What a disappointment!

We took in other sights. We visited the fort, Castillo de San Marcos, a monument of stone built by the Spanish to defend its interests in the New World. It sat on the coast of an inlet, facing a yacht club across the water. Hard to imagine a 350-year-old possession of the Spanish crown would end up Disneyfied and maintained for the likes of us, but such was the case. St. Augustine was a town of museums and shops selling conch shells and bottled water from the city tap labeled "Fountain of Youth". It even contained a _Ripley's Believe it or Not _museum, which was another rip-off in an otherwise preserved town touted as the oldest city in the New World.

That evening, we ended up at a tourist bar and since we were in unknown parts, Ben had drummed up fake IDs for each of us. I suggested he drop the doctor title from his since real IDs precluded them, but Ben was adamant. No one questioned it and we enjoyed the second-hand preferential treatment. He convinced the bar to send us away with a twelve-pack of beer and that's how we found ourselves blocks away from our hotel, watching the sun set too fast behind the horizon.

The four of us were perched on a slope of rocks pushed up against the waterfront at the end of a drawbridge. We found spots high and away from the surf-kissed boulders nearest the water. We were happy fucking clams pissing into the Atlantic, bombastic and lewd, by the time night fell.

"Drop your panties! Drop your panties! Dude, everyone was all shouty caps and, like, she heard us, and she dropped it all. Fuck, she was bare, man."

We laughed as Cheney gesticulated his point wildly. He loved online porn, especially of the interactive variety.

Emmett cracked open a beer. "Yorkie, one of these days, you're just going to have to pay for the real thing, you're already wasting it on that virtual shit anyway."

We were drunk on the boozy part of night when you could say anything and everything and never mean it in the daytime, disquieting rambles meant for our closest friends, not for the ears of our mothers and sisters.

"This is different, man."

"How so?"

"I dunno. I'm not touching them, I'm not using them like that," Ben said defensively.

We howled at that. Rich, his cluelessness, even Emmett's eyes bugged out. "It's the same thing! You keep telling yourself that, Cheney. Besides," Emmett took a swig of his beer. "They could teach you a thing or two." His tone was pure significance and our ears perked up.

Mike, who'd been taking a hit off a joint, was the one to ask behind a puff of white smoke. "You say this with bravado, dear sir. Please enlighten us."

"Yes, please."

"Just tell us."

Emmett demurred and I took that as stalling for effect, but Mike was having none of it. "You're saying you've been with a lady of the night, a streetwalker?"

"Streetwalker?" Ben smacked Mike's arm. "You get your lingo from cop shows, Newton?"

I reached over for a fresh beer, settling in; this ought to be good.

"Her name was Vicky," started Emmett. Traveling headlights passed over the bridge behind him. "It was on a dare."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen. All of my buddies gossiped about this new checkout girl at Kroger's who was charging five bucks to sniff her panties."

"Gross."

"Awesome."

I was mute.

"Man, it didn't matter. The closest I came to a pair of those was my cousin Lucinda and none of us gave a shit. You want to hear this or not? She was seventeen and had this wavy red hair and sweet smile and red lips, but it wouldn't have mattered if she had hair on her chin and a wart on her nose, you know how it is, I couldn't keep my willy down long enough to worry about it. We were all curious. One Saturday afternoon, I rode my bike past the store and she had just pulled out of the parking lot. I followed her until I knew which neighborhood she lived in. I rode up and down every street until I spotted her car in front of a pretty white picket fence. I thought, hell, why not. I knocked on her door and she was as surprised to see me as I was for being there. Now see, the thing is we had seen each other at church. I mean, she hung out with her friends and it wasn't like she was into me or anything, but I made sure to catch her eye once. That's all it took. A part of me didn't think a girl that pretty would smile at boys for money, but I was no different. There was a secret password you had to say."

We leaned in collectively.

"'Can I smell your muffin?'"

"You're kidding me."

"That's the worse password I've ever heard."

"Shut up. You want to tell the story, Cheney? Anyway, she widened the door and let me in. Her parents were out of town, she said. I had great timing, she said. She asked how old I was and, dumb as bricks as I was, I told her. She was about to say no, but I told her to take pity on me. All of my friends make fun of me, I said. They've all been with girls but me. This whole time, I'm getting close because it didn't take long to use my height as an advantage. I told her my puppy had just died and, I don't know, a bunch of mumbo jumbo to make her feel sorry for me. And feel sorry for me, she did. By the time I was done, she looked at me like she would make it her life's mission to fix me. Then she told me to drop my drawers before she changed her mind."

Emmett looked at me with a rueful smile, half in his story and half thinking about what I was thinking about. Since the delicate situation, since our discussion, his sexual appetite had become much more discretionary, but no less ardent. I didn't care for him to change his past and his life was his own to fill. I took it in stride.

Mike's head swiveled from me to Ben and back again, plainly wondering if we'd heard what we thought we'd heard. "You mean you really paid for sex?"

Emmett laughed.

"Okay, I lied about that part. She didn't charge for sex. I mean, oh yeah, we did it, but that part was free. I'll tell you this, though, she would not let me leave unless I ponied up five bucks and had me a sniff of her panties." He shook his head, remembering. Then he got quiet. "She was my first."

"What was it like?" blurted Cheney.

He sunk back on his rock, embarrassed, as if we hadn't already guessed he was a virgin. We ignored his outburst, but Em answered anyway. "Fast. I think I clocked forty-five seconds, I was squirting all over the place at everything she did! It was awful," he laughed. "But it didn't matter, she giggled through it but it didn't bother me. Every time I remember it, I think about her smile, we had a good time. I thought to myself, if this is all sex is, laughing and a good time, then sign me up. After that I wanted to see if I could make every girl smile like that all the time, any which way, so long as we were doing it together. Vicki, man, she was a hoot. She graduated that year and by the time I got to high school, she had already spoken about me. They were good things, and she did it because that's how nice she was. It was easier after that."

We sat quietly each in our thoughts, drinking the last of the beer and chuckling under our breaths when one of us got up to pee under the bridge, staggering on the slippery rocks and aiming for the pounding surf.

I had heard Emmett's story before, but this, our first trip out that fine freshman year with Mike and Ben, had become a benchmark for us. My circle of friends had grown. I couldn't have guessed such a thing a year before. They knew where I stood with girls, I made it common knowledge to keep things fair and they left it at that. "Edward the Monk", Ben would joke, but it was in fun and I didn't care what they thought.

After a long silence, Mike's mouth gaped like he wanted to say something. He was a quiet stoner and sometimes he had a brilliant comment he just had to get off his chest.

I helped him out. "Spit it out, Mike."

"I'm sleeping with Jessica Stanley."

"Woah!"

"You're shitting me."

"Cranky Stanley?"

Mike hit my arm. "Don't call her that. She's copacetic. She digs Bob Marley and everything."

It was hard to believe that Cranky Stanley, costumed daily in pumps and pearls, enjoyed the musical stylings of a dread-locked, pot-worshipping, reggae hippie, but according to Mike, "She can jam to Redemption Song."

Ben asked, "Does she wear her pearls to bed or do you take care of that for her?"

"Quiet yourself and treat her with respect. I like her. No, guys, don't give me that shit. Emmett here can fuck anything that moves…"

"Hey."

"And I can't have a sexual relationship with a girl my age? Whatever. She's a lady and I know she can be a hard ass – "

"She rations toilet paper, Mike."

"She's got a budget, okay? She's not like that. If you got to know her, you'd know she likes to kick off her shoes and have a good time."

"I'll bite."

"She's cool, that's all." Mike turned his attention to me as if I had a camera on him and he needed to declare it. "That's what's weird. She's my first, okay? But it's different when we're together. She's…softer. I like that. I like that she's that way with me." Somehow, with all of the weed he had smoked, I imagined Mike was having an epiphany – a careening train, blinking headlights, straight-for-his-heart kind of epiphany.

I squirmed. Something in Mike's voice, tender about a girl we all practically despised, sparked a concept as ludicrous as a scene in _Ripley's Believe It or Not_.

He loved her.

Right under our noses, we never saw it coming, the union of Mike and Jessica, like a freight truck mashed up and coiled in barbed wire. His shoulders dropped after his declaration as if, on that rock, he was lost and not one of us could point him in the right direction. It was the first time I'd seen anything like it. Hell, wasn't it supposed to be a happy thing? Flowers and a crib full of kittens? He looked sick. Right then, my stomach twisted up in second-hand knots. From the looks of Emmett and Ben's panicked eyes, we were all getting the same fearful vibe.

I felt bad for Mike. We all did. We talked about sex all the time. Well, I listened and I laughed. When it made sense, I paid attention. When it didn't, which was a whole hell of a lot more often, I shrugged it off. But this was the first time our joking got heavy.

It was Emmett who broke the awkward silence.

"That's good, Mike, um. Good for you. Right, guys?" he coughed.

Ben and I assured him, however weakly, that it was a good thing. And it was, we had never actually met anyone who had fallen into the trappings of love before. Our parents didn't count. While I knew I wanted the same thing some day, the idea had become abstract to the point where I would have been happy with mere companionship, not the terrorized dependency on another human being to give one a reason for getting up in the morning.

Everyone shut up after Mike's confession. We left St. Augustine unsure of what would happen to us, which one of us would be the next to fall. It was like walking up a hill alone and seeing a battalion thundering for you. Do you survive it or do you run? For all the sex talk, no one knew how to put _love_ in the context of a joke or a good time. How could we, we were wet behind the ears on that front and that served to unnerve me.

I had allowed myself to twine sex and love, with no room for error, and the hulking awesomeness of my conviction scared the shit out of me.

After that night we packed ourselves in Emmett's Volvo any chance we got and set out into unchartered territory, marking each location with our urine. It became customary to piss in the nearest body of water, christening it with our bodily presence as if setting down our flag.

It was in our sophomore year when we went camping.

I had my bare feet planted in the Gulf of Mexico, thigh deep in the water when Ben, to the left of me, asked, "Do you think this is odd?"

I heard Emmett zip up and turn. "What's odd?"

"You know. Us, pissing in the ocean like this?"

"It's not an ocean, it's a gulf."

Mike said: "God, that feels right. Why is it I always have to go when I'm near a body of water?"

"That's the Earth calling to you."

"I think we should always do it, it's only pee. Washes away with the tide."

Ben pulled his pants up. He wanted odd? He had the disconcerting habit of yanking his pants down when he went for a leak, instead of doing it the normal way. I briefly entertained the idea he learned to number one sitting down.

I shivered.

Mike looked out into the soft blue blanket of the Gulf. He waited some minutes. "Do you think it's safe now?" he asked me.

"I think the last thing we need to worry about is piss getting in our hair. The nastiest thing in this water are man-o-wars."

"No warning today."

"That's good," said Emmett. "They give me the heebie-jeebies." He surveyed the water for the jellyfish that sometimes floated up the coastline like inflated bladders gliding on tentacles. They were horribly painful if they stung you.

Plenty satisfied with the water, "I'm heading out," he said, and swam past the red buoys. Ben shrugged his shoulder and trailed behind him.

"I think everyone should mark their territory."

I turned to Mike. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I bet even Neil Armstrong and Buzz did it when they got to the moon. Do you suppose for one second they stopped at a flag? I don't buy it. Check out the tapes, they had their backs turned to the camera the whole time. I am certain they whipped it out and peed all over that moon."

"Impossible." Had I first met Mike that day, I would have found the conversation hard to believe, but I had indulged in enough ganja-inspired philosophical discussions of great import to know better. "If they did that, they'd have been exposed to the lack of oxygen. They would have died."

His eyes widened with the realization. "Oh."

"Oh," he repeated, and nodded at my sober wisdom. "Oh," he kept on, dunking his skinny torso in the water and wading out toward the rest of the guys.

We were camping on St. George's Island – seventy-five miles south of Tally. To reach our spot, we had to hike five miles with a cooler of beer and steaks, an inflatable mattress for Ben's 'bad back', and our tents and gear through a beached forest of slash pine trees. The barrier island was the home of grass covered white sand dunes, taller than a house, and interspersed on the beach like natural boundaries from one campsite to the next. In truth, we were the only ones out there that day and had the run of the place. It was a matter of the four of us and the ghost crabs scuttling blithely past our toes as they burrowed in their sandy homes.

After our dip in the water, we dried off as best we could given we were on a beach and no amount of toweling got the abrasive grit off. We had brought a rack from a toaster oven and placed it above a dugout hole over hot coals. It was a makeshift campfire, not for heat, but for cooking our steaks.

Mike got Emmett supremely high that trip. At one point, the ex-football star mistook the dry itching around his ankles as proof he was a victim of a man-o-war's surprise attack earlier that day. We looked at the area and he was fine. So panicked and certain of his death, he was, he started crying. We gave him shit the rest of the night and I forced Mike to promise he'd never get Emmett stoned again.

It was the night we found out that Ben Cheney was money.

We'd polished off the last steak and wrapped ourselves in blankets. We were products of the salted day, beached up from the sea, our muscles dreamy and heavy, strewn about like debris on the shore. The surf kept time with our breathing and we faced a night dome cluttered with stars.

It was Newton who asked, "What would you do if you won the lottery?"

It was a favorite of his, to fantasize about money and money and more money, what you'd do with it, how you'd eat it, wear it, spend it, sit on it. I fancied that question myself, who didn't? He and Emmett always shared the same answers.

My answer never varied, either. I would get my dad out of the mill, buy him a house wherever he wanted and I'd travel the world. For Rose, I'd set her up with her own theater company so she could boss people around the way she was meant to do and smile on the stage as often as she wanted.

It was Ben who never had anything to say. Maybe, _maybe,_ you got a, "Probably nothing", out of him, but that was it.

Mike and Emmett agreed on one thing. They wanted motorcycles.

"What about you, Ben?"

"Nah. Nothing." We kept badgering him, everyone had a wish. He looked away, then back at us and that's when he fessed up, sheepish. His parents had won the Louisiana lotto when he was twelve. Not only did he not _have_ to steal phone service, he didn't _have_ to attend a State University, he didn't _have_ to live in a cramped up dorm room, he simply didn't _have_ to live the life he did.

He _chose_ to.

Ben Cheney's parents, already well-off residents of Algiers Point, not only won the lottery, they did nothing noteworthy with their money. The very most tangible evidence of their good fortune was the purchase of a second home across the Mississippi on Magazine Street in New Orleans.

We stared at him with mouths open, trying to reconcile the porn-loving, self-made, man-about-town with his talk of 'edge' versus a country-club going, nouveau rich asshole.

Ben Cheney was not an asshole. He was an asshat, sure. He grated on my nerves when he taunted any one of us, but he wasn't mean and he took our ribbing with his own brand of panache.

"It's not a big deal," he said to our astonished stares. He was right; it wasn't a big deal except no one enjoyed getting blind-sided by a friend that way.

Take, for instance, Mike. "Wait a second, wait a second. You mean you can splurge for cable? All this time? You've been holding out on me!"

"What? I said I didn't need it, not that I couldn't afford it."

"You…you…you…miser! Who the fuck doesn't want cable? It's not about _needing_. I don't _need_ to put bacon on my cheeseburger, but that doesn't stop me from wanting the smoky salty delightfulness that is fatback. Are you crazy? I have to catch all the Mariners games at Jessica's and she hates baseball. She makes me paint her fucking toenails while I watch. Do you know how demeaning that is? I have to blow on them and everything!"

They went on like that all night, Mike hurt and seething because his roommate was holding out on the sports channels and Ben abashed that his confession ignited nothing more than betrayed irritation from Mike.

Emmett and I shrugged our shoulders. We were happy for Ben, but mostly glad to know that he was a grounded guy in spite of the fact he was way above our tax bracket. If anything, the worst that came out of that night was a renewed respect for Ben and the startlingly brilliant realization that we were going to visit New Orleans.

Because, obviously, we had to abuse him somehow, and inviting ourselves to his home seemed like the most logical solution.

Our visit didn't occur until April of our Junior year. We took the six-hour road trip to visit the Cheneys whose stately home commanded a large corner lot in the posh Garden District neighborhood. It was a beautiful two-story home with a wrap around porch railed by wrought iron. A small balcony on the top floor jutted out from his parent's bedroom directly overlooking a parade route. It was a grand sight to behold, and more so because we were each given our own rooms. We did rib him for not providing each of us a butler during our stay, but we cut him some slack for being the good sport that he was.

We stepped out into the night, submerged in the fleecy air – thick and warm as a hug. It was easy, alright, to understand why old-school Southern gents sauntered were painted with a cane and elegant swagger. Everything about New Orleans was easy, from the breathing to the drinking.

To the ladies.

I had never seen so much free skin, the wide-open doors to the world's greatest temptation. I gawked, and then I became embarrassed – repeat. There was no stopping the cycle. We started at one end of the Quarter and strolled in the middle of the car-less street peeping unrepentantly into the flesh-hawking establishments like children lost in Atlantis.

Emmett and Ben had a specific bordello they wanted to visit, leaving Mike and I – the loverboy and the monk – to roam about by our lonesome. We found a bar with a serving wench – her doughy breasts spread like a balcony above a blue corset – and imbibed absinthe because we could. I had never tasted the herbal tonic before, and it seemed to me that the appeal was less in the sweet anise coating the tongue and more on the ritual of getting it out of the bottle and into a fancy glass.

We watched, fascinated, as our generous server poured water over a sugar cube suspended on a slotted spoon, conjuring a wispy fog as it mixed with the green liqueur. I sipped mine slowly, cautious of the ominous warnings of absinthe's hallucinogenic qualities, or so I told myself.

"Horseshit," said a guy next to me. Yet another khaki-clad, camera-toting tourist plunked himself down with no preamble and all skepticism on the next stool. "They say that stuff makes you see things like you're on acid, but my friend and I tried it and all we got was a splitting headache. Miss, I'll take a Bud."

And just as quickly, he dismissed us, turning his attention to a trio of rotund women with shiny foreheads, mopping their necks. His party wore the tired expressions of people who needed a cold beer after a short walk. It was a warm night, after all. Mike and I ignored them and nursed our spirits, listening to the faint strains of a saxophone conducting an impromptu party somewhere in the Quarter.

An hour had passed by the time Ben and Emmett found us. I was fending off a droopy-eyed girl wearing a plastic fishbowl around her neck, half-full with a mash-up of liquor. It was green. A straw stuck out of it. I excused myself as gracefully as I could, prying her fingers off my arm. She seemed to think she knew me, judging from the amused snickers her friends threw her way.

When our friends came in, we all agreed it was time to eat, so we made our way to Café du Monde for a cheap sugar rush and cups of chicory coffee.

It was midnight in New Orleans, which explained the street party in full force: the 24/7 buskers, tarot-card readers, gospel singers, and tourists, busily jubilant along the edges of Jackson Square. The park itself was dimly lit, empty but for the occasional tourist crossing the lawn.

We sat on the patio with a three-foot mound of beignets covered in a bag's worth of powdered sugar. It was a glorious thing. We put it on Ben's tab, the good sport that he was.

Em and Ben filled us in on their adventure. They had ended up cheering a pair of lesbian midgets wrestle in a vat of chocolate pudding. Their recounting had us howling with laughter.

The crowd on the sidewalk pressed forth like fish up a stream, bodies gliding through the throng, pushing forward and falling back.

An opening, and a curious young girl dressed in black and white strolled excitedly toward a grand oak tree in the park as if she weren't bound to her surroundings. She took off her shoes and sank to her knees, ignoring the colorful tableau of revelers swirling around her. Nothing about her seemed like she cared to belong – that got my attention.

But the gap in the crowd closed again.

"Do you guys see that girl?"

Ben stopped his story, irritated. "What girl?"

I pointed toward the park but there were too many people in the way.

"You had too much of that absinthe, Cullen. I don't see anyone," said Ben. With that, they ignored me and continued trading stories.

Mike told the guys about a drunken woman who grabbed my crotch when we crossed a bustling street. I paused my vigilance and chimed in to correct the situation. It was the little old lady whose hand I dodged, I told them, probably her mother. We were all equally appalled and amused.

We went on talking like that, and then I remembered about the girl in the park. I turned to the same picture of a blurring crowd when the action stopped again.

She was still there, facing the tree, her head near the ground as if she were studying its roots. I didn't notice anyone else staring at her idiosyncrasy, but me. I smiled, how peculiar. What could she possibly be doing? I wanted to know more, unabashedly nosey, but a giant biker and his shaggy-haired girlfriend disrupted my view.

I sank back, more disappointed than I had been in a long time. I heard the guys make plans for the next day, where to go, what to do. I had nothing to add. My face felt tight, the thought of being anywhere but across the park, made me feel dislocated as if I were sitting with strangers, as if I were homeless.

A line had begun to form at the doors of the café. It was the late-late crowd, pressing for a second wind.

The sidewalk cleared again and there she was.

This time, I paid her my full attention.

Why I thought she was young, come to think of it, I did not know, after all I could not see the details of her face.

Her white blouse glowed against the night, brighter and more interesting than the mass of neon signs cluttering Bourbon Street, and I became more fascinated by her than all the lewd curiosities I had witnessed. She kneeled on a long black skirt and the air around her was fragile; I liked it. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned clothing, the pinned back hair. She was anachronistic in the hot heaving night, her hidden flesh a contrast from those around her.

I remembered a children's tale, and a wry grin formed as I imagined her as having been ripped out of time.

I paid no mind to the filth or the greedy revelers partying like they lived for the end of the world. Even the sour scent of the Mississippi dissolved into a joy of sweet pink blossoms and the ambrosia of a freshly cut peach.

A part of me wondered if I really was high from the absinthe. If that were the case, then what a wonderfully pleasant sensation I did not want to end.

She held something in the palm of her hand; she bent her head toward it.

I smiled, what a mystery.

I rubbed the back of my sweaty neck. I looked at Mike, who was laughing at something Ben had said. Emmett was eating with gusto, his dimple popping mid-chew. The café was brimming with glassy eyes and tall, thin waiters' hips sliding between tables. Silverware scraped.

The girl across the way stood up and stretched a long lean back, hands clasped above her head, as if she'd risen from bed as sexy as sleep.

I felt calm, pulled under the current where I imagined she lived, too. She put a spell on me and she hadn't even done anything. I didn't know who she was, but she stood out from the souls crushing against me all night. I had to take a closer look. I had to know.

I had to know if we spoke in the same code.

I had stopped listening to my friends, and more than that. I had thought myself hallucinating the act of standing and crossing the patio, jumping the railing, and crossing the street to be under the cover of feathery dark with the girl. I imagined entering her closed world, her solitary endeavor, away from the laughing teeth of the crowd, the crash of coffee cups, the calls of my name.

I liked that she was alone, so alone in the midst of the chaos.

I knew that feeling, I knew all about it.

But she was gone.

Emmett was next to me. I hadn't realized I was standing in the park, in the same spot she had just been. From the concern on Emmett's brow, I imagined I looked lost. How else could I explain leaping over the short gate, and ignoring the guys as I ran into the park? They really had called after me.

"Hey. What are you doing here? You okay?" He was worried. "Gentleman Ed, you're freaking me out. What's eating you?"

I wanted to tell him: _I think it was her, but I can't prove it, except that my heart's hollow and I want to cry. I'm surrounded by music and dancing and pulsing light, by my friends, but I'm achy and lonelier than I've ever felt in my life. _

Instead I told him, "I think I had too much to drink."

Emmett nodded slowly, taking me in like one would a frightened feral cat. He spoke gingerly. "Okay, buddy, alright. Let's go."

Ben and Mike trotted up. "Way to skip out on the bill, Cullen."

"What the hell happened to you?"

I didn't respond to Mike. I surveyed the grassy area, finding nothing, no trace, no footprints. Roots, branches, a pair of Mardi Gras beads and a little harmless spider scurrying away from me.

"Cullen's acting weird again."

"C'mon, let's go back."

I blindly followed my friends, looking back at the park, as Emmett guided me toward the waterfront. We spilled out onto the boardwalk. It was Cheney who skipped down the stones toward the Mississippi River for the traditional defiling. Mike and Emmett followed. I stayed behind. They faced the river and Cheney's ass came in to view.

They were marking their claim, but I felt like I had lost something. I didn't have celebrating in me, something about the girl left me black and blue on the inside.

I know I didn't imagine her. I had lost time for a second there, sure, but I didn't make her up.

_Did I?_

I forced myself to breathe deeply. Turpentine and slick oil, not the citrus tang of earlier. Everything had changed.

They were laughing by the waterfront, my friends. It was as if I lost minutes and the only thing that counted was what happened before and what happened after, but the in-between was fated to stay a mystery.

Was I meant to never know? Was that even a possibility? Could it be possible that the girl in the park was a missed chance I didn't even know I had?

My eyes widened, I panicked. When I had pushed through the crowd, it was a matter of seconds, but in that time, she had disappeared.

_Oh, say it ain't so._

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't allow for the idea to poison my mind, I wasn't ready to give up when I'd barely had a chance to try. I wasn't going to entertain the thought; for my own sanity, I could not allow it.

I swallowed and took a step toward the water. I would find her again. I had to.

"C'mon, Cullen, I can't hold it all night!" I smiled and shook my head. Of course, they wouldn't go without me.

I was certain as my name that I saw _her_ that night. The thought, alone, made me stumble on the rocks, aching to turn around and comb the packed Quarter, but I knew it was impossible. I wasn't going to let it get to me even if my heart stuttered at the loss.

I just had to hold on tight until I saw her again.

I took off and joined my friends. I learned a long time ago, one way to fight loneliness was to smile all the time. I had years of practice. When I reached them, they patted me on the back and made a spot for me.

Emmett leaned in; we both had eyes for the moonlit river. His voice was low, for my ears only. "How's the weather?"

I thought about the twisted up magic of the sultry New Orleans night, the girl with a promise in her hand who had permeated my soul. As I watched the river undulate like a mirage, I couldn't shake the vagueness between reality and dreaming.

I answered Emmett. "Hazy, with low visibility."

"Huh," he considered my answer. "At least your eyes are open, right?"

"You could say that."

That day was the moment from which I never stopped thinking about her.

* * *

><p>Emmett and I had been on the trail for twenty-one days when we finally called it quits.<p>

We had hiked, after we used up our self-imposed day passes to rest in small towns, approximately two hundred miles. We had fewer than another five miles to go when we reached a sparkling blue lake – as large as two football fields - at the foot of a nameless mountain near Roanoke, Virginia.

Our options were to make camp overnight, or plough through and hike into town where we could lay our weary heads on feathered pillows and eat pie and ice cream at a greasy spoon in place of another night on damp ground – the August rains had kept us company in the last stretch of our hike. The day we reached the lake had been the driest all week.

"What do you say, Gentleman Ed?"

It was nearing dusk. We no longer wore the sun for a hat and the coolness from the wet ground rose up past my thighs. It was turning out to be a brisk and crisp evening, cloudless.

I was tired. I wanted to get back to civilization and put my feet up. We had weathered pounding heat, rat-infested shelters, pelting rain forcing us under cover, blisters on our toes, mosquito bites, stomach cramps, and other assorted pains and annoyances that would have driven a lesser person to maddening distraction. But that was my torn up body talking.

My head, on the other hand, was clear as the mirrored lake, peaceful. I didn't want to lose my serene frame of mind. It was the calmest and happiest I had felt all year, it seemed.

The forest was silent but for croaking frogs and woodland rustling.

One half of the lake was brilliant blue, cast by the sinking sun, and the other half, dark and silky under the shadow of the mountain.

I grinned at Emmett, and his look of joyous anticipation told me he knew my answer. It was he who voiced our thoughts.

"This right here, Gentleman Ed, looks to me like the world's best bathtub."

I laughed. "As Mike would say, 'I do believe I concur, good sir.'"

He sniffed his armpit, which was in the same foul state as my own. "I'm rank! And this here tub is plenty big enough for the two of us without coming off like we fancy each other. I'm hopping in!"

"Now that's a plan I can get behind."

All settled, he clapped and unloaded his pack, did a jig, and sat down to take off his shoes.

I took off my own burden and stumbled forward from the weightlessness.

Emmett was on his jeans when I started in. "I wish I had soap. I'm out." I sniffed under my collar. "Whew, I need to call in the cavalry."

"I'm sure I can find something to help with that." He dug in his pack and pulled out a little green bottle of Palmolive and waved it in my face. "Mom comes through again."

I hooted. That was great. With that I undressed quickly until I was left in nothing but my birthday suit. I ran after Emmett, both of us flapping in the wind like sons of Tarzan.

We found a launching rock and howled like the jungle man himself, splashing heavily in the lake. We waded to a shallow beach and soaped up. God, it felt good to scrub the grime off, the sand between my toes. We swam lazily, well aware that it was the last we would have of such careless freedom, until evening fell, splotching the lake, trees, and sky in varying shades of blue.

Emmett waded to the beach and got out. He wanted to start a campfire.

Twenty-one days in the wilderness. I chuckled in the water, realizing that it was twenty-one days for every year I had lived. That, alone, ignited a surge of accomplishment and fear.

I felt so small then – a frayed thread in the tapestry, as if my insignificant life was pawed by a force bigger than me.

I floated on my back with my eyes closed. I thought of the upcoming school year, of my home in Tallahassee and the short life I've made there. I was ready to go back to Aro's gym, I needed the distraction.

I wondered what sort of men we'd become by graduation. Where would I call home?

I did not know.

There was so much I did not know. Oh French Quarter Girl, was that you? Did you call to me that night when I couldn't get to you fast enough? Did you really stop time? I couldn't for the life of me figure out if I had made her up and that only served to frustrate me.

This love business was crushing and there I was with nothing to show for it, but a random sighting of a strange woman one hot New Orleans night.

I knew nothing.

Not her name, not her situation. Was she married? Old? Young? Would I see her again or was I delusional?

Would I meet anyone like her again?

I did know one thing. I knew the fiery curiosity, the spark of the promise for something more was alive that night.

God, I was hopeless. Not only did I want a repeat of that night – I could choke on my sudden bouts of desperation some days – but I kept getting the crazy urgency to get on with it, to find her. Then there were times, in my weakest moments, when I would have settled for communion with anyone if just for a taste. I'd take the next girl that crossed my path if it meant I could be soothed for a second.

I dunked my head in the water, wishing I could live there forever – preferably with my dream come true girl. Could I do the impossible and hold my breath forever?

It didn't seem likely.

All I could do was hope – so hard it hurt – for the strength to survive, if nothing else.

I swam to the bank and hauled my body out of the water.

I had no more time to waste on growing up.

* * *

><p>AN:

WriteOnTime and faireyfan truly helped me with this monster of a chapter. I can't thank them enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Enough with my excuses, on with the show...

* * *

><p><strong>White Rabbit – The Debutante and The Boxer – Winging It – Her Again – Stand Still<strong>

* * *

><p>"It's official. I'm stoned."<p>

The girl on the deck chair to my left laughed like a breathless hyena hardly surprised by my random declaration. I smiled through a smoke ring, circling its pattern with my pinky. "Look it's a telescope." She laughed again, spurring me on. "I can see Pegasus, Cassiopeia, and two cows humping. Or…wait…are those ponies?"

"Stop. I can't. You're going to make me pee my pants."

"The pool's right there." I pointed ahead.

"Gross." She shivered dramatically. "Can you please pass that?" I handed over a rolled cigarette stuffed with Mike's favorite herb.

"You're so weird." She said as an afterthought.

"Tell me your name again. I like when you say it."

"You just like my accent."

"That I do."

"Mary Alice. Mary Alice Brandon."

I repeated it in my most venerable imitation of Southern aristocracy then added, "Why, Miss Mary Alice, you look lovely and most fetching tonight." I voiced this as if we were of genteel society standing on the hot porch of some grand mansion and not – absolutely not – two trespassing residents of the same apartment complex, sitting poolside on a cool October night.

I ignored the sharp scent of chlorine aggravating my smoky imagination.

I heard her exhale a puff. In her swaying lilt, she played along. "Why thank you, Edward, I sure do appreciate the nice things you do say." She coughed lightly, breaking character. "I think that last hit just rushed to my head. Holy crow, that's lovely. It's like I'm holding my breath and floating at the same time but I'm still breathing, see?"

I kept my eyes on the fluffy clouds of smoke. She didn't expect an answer from me. Both of us had been happily rambling in dreamy fashion since we started in with the weed.

"I don't do this very much," she said sheepishly.

"What?"

"Smoke."

"Neither do I. My friend, Mike, gave it to me tonight. I think he felt sorry for me."

"Why did he feel sorry for you?"

"We were supposed to hit the road this weekend and they forgot. Me, Emmett, and the rest of the guys, that is. They're all on dates. Emmett on a date, it's the end of an era." I lamented, happy for the lug but nostalgic, nevertheless. "Then there's Ben, he's got a girlfriend that no one's met yet and Mike, the guy that gave me the weed, he's with his wife."

"Your friend's married? Jeesh, I don't have any married friends. That would make me feel so old."

"Nah, he's not married. But it's Jessica, he might as well be."

I closed my eyes and hummed a tune, no longer feeling half as abandoned as I had been before bumping into Mary Alice.

"Oh. That's too bad." She passed me the joint. "It was nice of him to share this with you, right?"

I took another hit, bored with my sad situation. I didn't want to be sullen, I wanted to play a character in a Tennessee Williams play, overtaken by Southern charm and fantasy, but she wouldn't let me.

"Tell me your name again."

"No, not again."

"Mary Alice," I sang. "Can't you just pick one? Like Mary?"

"No. I hate that one."

"How about Alice. Just Alice. Has a nice ring, like through the looking glass, Alice in Wonder –"

"Don't. Definitely not Alice. I have two names, deal with it."

"Alrighty then. Sorry."

"It's okay." She paused. "Edward _Anthony_."

We laughed at that. Did I really think her laugh was like a hyena a moment ago? Wow. Wrong. It was huskier and so feminine I wanted to roll around in it. Suddenly I was highly aware of the girl I met in the laundry room.

Resigned to another Friday night solo, I got the brilliant idea to pass the time by getting high and doing laundry. Mary Alice happened to be the only other resident in need of clean jeans and we struck up a conversation. As it turned out, we had both been displaced for the evening.

"Thanks for hanging out." I said bravely.

"I was bored."

"Right."

"And you were bored," she teased.

"You do me great service. Oh, and don't forget sulking. You said earlier that I was sulking."

"Right. And you were sulking." She did not hold back on the smart mouth. _On slim lips_, I observed silently. I peeked from one eye and took her in. _Slimmer hips._

I sighed and rubbed my chest. My head was everywhere like I was a million Edwards and none of them wholly me.

"You were staring into the dryer like you were waiting for it to suck you in. It was rather funny."

"You can't even use a dryer. I taught you how to operate a washing machine."

"Touché _and _mean. It takes all the chivalry away when you remind a lady of her shortcomings."

"You _are_ a lady and you're short."

"Stop. I thought you were nice."

I looked over at Mary Alice who was smiling toward the pool as if she were saying lines to an faraway actor.

The clubhouse pool was quiet and lonely save for both of us. It was silent, as if we were the last two people on Earth. "The lights under the pool…"

She turned to me. "Yeah?"

"Glowing like a spaceship's about to hover out of it."

She scrunched her face, searching for the image. She shook it off dismissively. "I can't imagine." I shrugged. It was like tracing cloud shapes – you either saw it or you didn't.

I reached over to her, passing. "Thanks for sharing," she said sincerely.

I nodded. Finding a girl in the laundry room and striking up a conversation wasn't my modus operandi, but I was already on a first class trip into the Twilight Zone, and Mary Alice hopped on board after I cavalierly confessed to owning a joint. Without missing a beat, she suggested the pool. Was I that non-threatening? Or was she just gullible?

She interrupted my swirling monologue. "You don't need your friends for a good time," she started idly. I took a drink of water. She said, "You have me for a good time."

I coughed, water sputtering. Shit. I've had girls throw themselves at me, but…

"Oh my God, that's so not what I meant! That came out wrong."

I waved it off. "Forget it. I didn't interpret it…like that," I lied.

That's when I really took stock of my companion chastising herself, and muttering under her breath. It was amusing. She didn't come off as fast and loose. She came across as a good girl who thought herself worldly, but in the few hours since meeting her, I found her perspective was bound within the city limits of her hometown in Biloxi, Mississippi.

She was a transfer student and this was her first time on her own. I got the impression she was working on being bold. I wouldn't have blinked if she confessed smoking pot with a stranger was one of the riskiest things she'd ever done. I pictured her among the polished girls on Sorority Row, not sitting in the semi-dark with the likes of me.

Her features were as delicate as a teacup, fragile under huge, guileless eyes. She tucked her raven-colored hair behind her ear. I attributed it to habit, seeing as it was cut to the nape of her neck and brilliantly shiny like mussed, black feathers. It was her profile, illuminated by the dim moon that prompted me to ask.

"You ever been to the New Orleans?"

"What? Oh. Um, once. When I was a little girl. Why?"

Of course it wasn't her. She didn't give me the funnies. No doubt Mary Alice was a looker, but she was young and the sparks weren't flying in that 'look over the side at the top of the roller coaster' kind of way. I knew it was a long shot but it sure would have been convenient.

"No reason." I folded my knees up and reverted back to mapping the stars, wondering if I had made _her_ up. Two glasses of absinthe couldn't have messed me up that night. I thought about it in my drug-induced haze: I recalled the clamor of the Quarter, the scent of the river, sweat, and cloying flowers. Those things I knew were real. But was _she_?

"Are you brooding again?"

"You think you have me pegged, don't you?"

"It's not so hard, you keep frowning like someone stole your kitty," she laughed. "Hey! You know what we need? We need snacks! I'm starving."

"I can raid my fridge." I offered.

"Me, too."

"Meet back in fifteen?"

"Perfect."

"Use the cinder block to keep the gate open," I reminded her. "It shuts automatically after ten."

In my apartment, I snagged all of Emmett's Ho-Hos and Pop Tarts, still pissed that he forgot our plans to hang out tonight. I grabbed a bag of chips and two waters, then backtracked and snatched another joint from my room. Mary Alice wasn't a bad sport and I was having a good time chilling by the pool so why not? Heading back to the clubhouse under the cover of night with my stash, a wave of the same excitement I felt before a road trip hit me. The difference was that for once, I didn't care where I was headed.

When I returned the gate was propped open but there was no Mary Alice. I set my stuff down between our lounge chairs and settled in with the chips. I lost myself in soft glow of the green pool dappled in fluorescent light.

Not since Rose had I enjoyed a casual conversation with a girl that had nothing to do with school or everyday platitudes – no agendas on either end. Twenty-one years old and I made it all this time without any real experience, no touching, no groping. I had never even held a girl's hand. Before my friends disappeared, I'd watch them lay it on thick as hot girls stepped up to us. I wasn't nervous around the ladies, but I never made a pass even when it would have been welcomed.

It was like girls were visitors in our bubble, but since my buddies had all taken off with the fairer sex, I'd been left behind – the odd man out. I was the last guy on the field.

I hoped Mary Alice didn't think I was out to take advantage of her. She was easy to talk to and I hoped she didn't expect anything from _me_. Did I come off as desperate in asking her to join me? It wasn't my style to creep in laundry rooms, stalking innocent girls like a vampire in the night by the light of a full…

"I got music," Mary Alice said, walking up behind me and nudging me with her hip. She held up a small stereo in one hand. I bolted out of my paranoid fuzz, my heart pounded as if guilty.

"All I could find were Triscuits, Twizzlers, and grapes. Sorry, but my roommate insisted we go on a diet together." She dropped a canvas bag between us and sat in her spot, smiling easily at me.

"You don't need to diet," I blurted.

Her head shot up from rummaging in her bag. She blinked at me. "Oh?"

"I mean. You're fine. You look fine." Oh, hell. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I don't know why you girls want to fix what's not broken. It looks like so much effort," I said straightening my legs out.

"Of course you don't understand. You're a guy. Slap another twenty pounds on you and you'd still be hot. Me? I'm barely five-oh and one measly pound, I'd look like a puffer fish." I stared at her, wide-eyed, as she puffed her cheeks and fanned her hands like gills. A slow smile crept across my face from ear to ear.

"What?" She paused her mimicry. I was making her nervous, I could see it in her eyes and it made my smile go wider. "You said I'm hot."

She pursed her lips and threw a box of Triscuits at me. "You dork. That wasn't my point."

I let it go for her sake, but my ego was happily stroked. I sat back with the crackers and opened the package. "I know your point," I said, biting into one and spitting it out just as fast. I looked at her accusingly. "This tastes like sawdust. How can you stand it?" I placed the offending crackers to the side. "Here, take back your bird food. I know your point. Your point's that girls are determined to ruin a good thing."

I ripped open the box of blueberry Pop-Tarts and told her in no uncertain terms: "No matter how sexy you girls are, you're always trying harder. Guys can tell if you try too hard. What's with that anyway? Ordering salads, putting on make-up to workout. We'll notice anything that walks, especially if you're hot."

I interrupted my rambling to bite into the foil packet when a shadow fell in front of me, blocking my view of the pool. Mary Alice stood, hands on hips, her blue eyes flashing victory, a wicked smile on her face. She jutted her hip to one side. I appreciated her legs, reaching up into a pair of white shorts. She wore a tight, long-sleeved FSU shirt. She looked like she could eat me alive if I dared myself to allow it.

I made myself hold her gaze.

"I'm sorry." She cupped a hand to her ear. "I didn't hear that. Who's sexy now?"

I leaned against the backrest and crossed my arms. I didn't know where my bravado had come from, whether it was my cottonhead or observing Emmett through the years, but I felt like a guy called up from the bench. I was stoned. I was relaxed. I was clearly happy to play her game. What I said next sounded as if it came from over my shoulder by a guy ten times more charming than me.

"Yeah," I admitted freely. "You're hot." I shrugged. "I can own that."

_That's right, Mary Alice, get flustered. _

"And you should know, hot girls don't need diets." Her cocky little stance faltered. "You know what they need, instead?"

She whispered, "What?"

I leaned forward slowly, matching her earlier teasing smile. "Pop Tarts." I threw a packet at her and whistled admiringly when she caught it.

"Oh my God, you jerk!" She threw up her hands and sat down, fumbling with the radio dial, muttering about dumb boys. "You're such a player."

"Me? You offend me," I said askance, grinning that she would believe my acting. "I'm the boy your mother wanted you to meet, sweetheart."

"Ha. Right." I didn't know what I said, but her tone told me I killed the levity. She found a radio station and crossed her legs, a bag of Twizzlers in her hand. "No offense, Edward, but my mother would kill me if I brought you home." She smiled sadly. "She practically has a questionnaire written up for every one of my suitors. The first thing she'd ask is what you're majoring in."

"Biology," I replied, curious as to where she was taking this.

"On track to med school?"

"Not even close. I hate it. I prefer my minor, writing."

She laughed and slapped her knee. "A writer, even better! She would totally hate you then. And where are your parents from?"

"They're not _from_ anywhere. We live in Buffalo, my dad and I."

"She'd hate that, too."

"Thanks," I said. My ego was sufficiently deflated. "I get it."

She continued to smile, shaking her head. "No you don't. Trust me, there's nothing wrong with you. It's her. She's the one who cares how people perceive her. She's so shallow, it makes me crazy. She'll make herself crazy, and me in the process, trying to set me up. I swear she came out of a different era." Mary Alice spoke with abject resignation. "She would love it if we went back to arranged marriages. 'It would make my life less complicated.' Her words not mine."

"That sucks. You're mother's a – "

"Witch."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"You can. You _should_."

I put my hands up. "Not for me to say. But, yeah, she doesn't have her priorities straight. She should lay off. You gotta tell her that you're your own woman, it's your life."

"Easy for you to say. For my coming out party, she handpicked my escort knowing full well I had my mind set on someone else. Everything was perfect, just the way I wanted it, but when it was time to choose my date, I wasn't allowed…she didn't let me. I ended up going with the fat son of her investment broker instead of my first choice. It ruined everything."

"You were a debutante?"

She nodded. "Transferring schools was the best thing I could have done."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"She calls me every day, ten times a day. She'd freak if she knew what I was up to. You guys, you have it all. You get away with everything."

"We get pressured, too."

"Yeah? How?"

Let's see: sex, sports, school, sex. Be better, faster, smarter, richer. Play the field, play the guitar, play the asshole, play the angel. What we're not, we should be. No pressure.

"Did I tell you I work at the gym?"

"Like campus gym?"

"No. Volturi's Boxing Club." She adjusted her sitting position and tucked her hands into her sleeves. "You cold?"

"No. I'm good. What do you do at the gym?"

"Train with the boxers, spar, help them with footwork, find their weaknesses. Whatever they need me to do."

"So you box?"

"Not competitively. I've been going there ever since my freshman year just to work out, learn how to fight. But then I went all the time. I got hooked on the routine. I went so much, they asked if I wanted to get paid. I started cleaning, tutoring – "

"Tutor?"

"Yeah, I'll get to that. Anyway, I got better and stronger and Aro – the owner – he took notice. He started badgering me last year to compete. Hasn't let up since. Talk about pressure. You get a fifty-five-year-old ex-fighter yelling in your face all the time to work harder, be better. 'Work off that hunger, Edward.' That's Aro."

"You can quit. I can't quit my family. It's not the same."

I watched Mary Alice's shoulders slump. The spitfire had burned out and I wasn't saying shit to make her feel better. "No, maybe it's not. But I can't quit, either."

I fished the second joint out of my jeans and presented it to Alice. She nodded and threw the lighter over.

"Why can't you quit the gym?"

I took a hit. I exhaled, grateful that Mike had taken pity on me before heading out for the night. The conversation was getting heavy for two people who had only just met, but since she was in the same lonely boat as me, I could afford to ramble on. We had nothing better to do.

Seconds had passed since her question, but with the new smoke blooming in my lungs, it was as if I had missed answering by an hour. "They're like a family to me. Caius, Aro's brother, he's been my trainer since I started. Real nice guy, the opposite of Aro. Patient. And then there's Felix."

I handed the joint to her. I told her about my second home until the bud's orange glow flickered out between us.

"I love it there. I know Aro's an asshole, but everyone else…everyone else is family. Boxers get a bad rap, but they're just like you and me. They want family, love, money, and a place to call home. Like Felix. Imagine this two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound, six-seven behemoth of a man. He's a mountain, right? A wall. He's got these small, mouse-like eyes. He's got these ears, we call them 'cauliflower' ears cause that's the shape they turn to after years of getting pounded in the head."

"Sounds brutal so far, Edward." Her voice, as if miles away, sounded unconvinced.

"What if I told you he's a real pussycat? I mean, when he's in the ring, he'll clobber a guy, fists like stone. But outside of the ring, he's a gentle giant. He fights for the money, nothing more. The other guy in the ring with him? Same thing. It's not personal. Hell, it's not even angry. It's work."

I put my hands behind my neck and got comfy. "You see, he's twenty-five. When I met him, I was like a little cockroach. I scrambled away from him and huddled in my corner, keeping away. When he wasn't looking, I would copy his moves. I'd watch him shred the speed bag. Did you know," I laughed, recalling, "He was upset because I kept my distance? This imposing boxer was hurt, I mean _hurt_. Damn. It's because of him that I started to train. He told Caius – the best trainer this side of the Mississippi, by the way – that he wanted me to be his sparring partner. That took me by surprise. I couldn't run a mile when Caius got a hold of me. I couldn't jump rope longer than thirty seconds before my feet got tangled up."

"You got in shape."

"Yeah – in more ways than one. But, Felix, he came up to me one day and asked me to help him 'with the books'. He was illiterate when I met him and now we have our own book club, if you can believe it."

"Are you making this up?"

"Nope. Felix is a sweetheart. Then there's Caius and Aro. Picture a two-by-four and give it arms and legs. Then put a head on it, a face with a pointed nose and a chin that juts out with a billy goat's beard. Now slick back the gray hair into a receding widow's peak and put it in a ponytail – that's Aro. Make a second one, but take away the beard and ponytail, and add kind eye – that's Caius. They're as different as night and day. And different, still, from their other brother."

I turned on my side and looked at Mary Alice who had her eyes closed.

"I'm sorry, I'm boring you."

"Oh, no. I'm listening. You paint quite a picture. But you're not telling me what I want to hear."

"What's that?" I sat up and rested on my elbow.

"I want to know about the hot, sweaty guys working out at your gym." She smiled with her eyes closed.

"Girls. That's all you guys want, buff guys in Everlast shorts."

"Oh, that sounds good. Keep going."

"Ha-ha."

I lost my train of thought and focused on the crickets. The radio was playing, but Mary Alice had turned it down.

"It's late." She pointed to the sky. "That star was over there earlier and now it's over there," she said, swinging her arm in an arc.

"Head back?" I wasn't ready to go in yet, but decided I'd see her to her door if she wanted to.

"No. I'm good."

I nodded.

"Wait!"

"What?" I asked.

"Edward, do you hear that?" she whispered urgently.

"Hear what?"

She held a finger up for a beat, and then said, "There. That scream. Hear it?"

I strained to listen for a pitch, but couldn't make out what she was referring to. I shook my head. Mary Alice stood up, her head cocked toward the parking lot. "That. There. Like a woman screaming. I think someone's streaking!"

"I don't hear – "

"There it is!" A car had pulled up into the complex, tires on gravel was all I heard. Every sounds was amplified, but if I plucked the nighttime chords out one by one…

"Oh!" I cracked up.

"What?" She turned to me expectantly.

"That's not streaking, Mary Alice. Listen." I turned up the volume on the radio. She sat down when she heard the opening to _The Payback_.

"It's a song?"

I swung my legs over to the side, facing her and nodded groovily to the song. "Not just any song. James Brown."

"Oh, God." She covered up her face. "That's so embarrassing. It totally sounds like a woman screaming in that." She moved to change the dial.

"Oh no you don't. That's a great song."

"What? Are you serious? This is the kind of music my dad listens to."

"Man's got good taste," I said, my shoulders moving of their own accord.

"James Brown? That's so old school."

"Yeah, but that's where the best music is. Brown was the man!" I got up and moved feeling light as a feather. "He's the Godfather of Soul, woman. Soul brother number one."

"Oh my God, you really are high!"

I shook my head, eyes closed, dancing like she wasn't even there. "Stone-cold sober, hand over heart, dollface, I'd still say it. He's all the soul you need."

I offered her my hand. "C'mon, get up."

"No way."

"Stand up. C'mon."

"What?"

"Don't be shy."

I pulled her up and got down to the funk like a man possessed, sliding side to side, showing off the moves I learned in front of the mirror when I was a young boy. I did it to make my mother laugh, remembering how she loved to hear his music when she went on a baking spree. Upon the first bass chord, I'd pop into the kitchen, spinning and grunting to the jam making her double over in hysterics. It was our thing. There, under the cover of night, cloaked in a velvet headspace, I thought of my mother with a smile.

The song worked its way from percussion to horns, I could practically see the black sheen of sweat under Brown's magnificent hair and when the grunts pushed up against bass guitar, I channeled my old hero. I shimmied with my eyes closed, dipping my hips into Mary Alice who stood there giggling so hard at my antics it only egged me on. I was too shitfaced to care about acting the fool.

"You even do the spin," she laughed. I nodded smugly and pulled her in, rocking our hips. I twirled her like she was a yo-yo and pulled her back into a low dip.

When the song ended we gulped down air, unable to control our ridiculousness. "You get _down_ for a white boy, Edward!"

I flopped back on my chair. I wished we had a whole album of soul to listen to but the song ended too quickly. I collected myself. "My best friend taught me some moves, too."

"Emmett? That's the big guy, right?"

"No, no. Although, that would be hysterical. My friend, Rose, from back home. She made me, wouldn't let me take her to the prom until I learned how to lead."

I was heady from the adrenaline and all I wanted right then was to keep my heart racing. I eyed the pool considering my options. _To swim or not to swim._

"Ooh, turn it up. It's INXS."

"It's already up. We're going to wake the neighbors."

Mary Alice ignored me. "See, this I can dance to." Based on how she gyrated her hips, I'd say she had broken through her earlier modesty.

Fuck.

"It's, like, the sexiest song _ever_." She closed her eyes and threw her head back. I scooted up my chair, worked up by the show in front of me. I was sure she didn't dance like this at her debutante ball.

"This part, right here, is my favorite…oh, shit – " she stumbled and landed square on my thighs. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I – "

She was so light, like a hot dream writhing on my caged-up libido. It took one pause, one seductive gaze from her for me to give in to primitive impulse. I didn't need experience to drum up what happened next. It felt as if a stranger inhabited my body, sliding her up my torso until my lips fastened on hers. My knees lifted to the sky, reflexively, caging her between my legs and I plunged right in like a man coming out of a drought.

I hadn't been worked up for a girl and acted on it until Mary Alice's hands landed on me. My mind scrambled the signals, my gut twisted painful pleasure. The principle was in the kiss, just how I imagined it – a girl on top of me, her hands twisted in my hair, guttural and unfocused. And licks, licks, everywhere licks.

_Fuck, this is delicious._

She pulled away first and looked down at me, speaking slowly. "I haven't been kissed like that since…well, since a long time."

I swallowed and threw my head back, unable to give voice to the same thing. I had never kissed anyone like that. I sucked in air through my mouth as if I'd sprinted to the finish.

I wanted to apologize for being so forward but I didn't have it in me to lie. "That was fun," I said, catching my breath.

She smiled, faking coy. We made out again, each of us taking what they needed. Just for tonight was my passing thought. I had no idea if I'd see her again. I cared and I didn't care. I didn't think beyond pulling her lip into my mouth.

She eked out a frustrated sound and yanked herself away but I didn't feel bad. I was panting like a puppy happy for the bone. Being miserably horny was a state of mind for me. It was a big part of why I worked out and kept a busy schedule, so I could ignore it. I held my tongue from coming off like a loser and thanking Mary Alice for a taste of her.

"That was ridiculously good, Edward."

I sat up, giving her space on the edge of my chair. "That was…yeah." I cleared my throat. "I'm sor – "

"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not. That was all in good fun."

"Yeah?"

"I'm not that kind of girl. I don't do this stuff, though."

"I know. I know."

She stood. "We need to cool off. You cool? I'm cool. We both need to cool, okay?" I smiled, glad I wasn't the only one disoriented.

She pulled me up and led me to the edge of the pool. "C'mon. Let's dip our feet in."

"Now?"

"What, are you shy now, Edward Cullen?" She winked at me, breaking us out of our lusty spell. She held my hand like we'd known each other all of our lives. I let her lead me like a willing kite.

"Alright, Brandon." I would have rather made out again but I was in no condition to push it.

I rolled up my jeans and we sat with our feet in the water, the white-green glow below disfiguring our feet like a funhouse mirror. She rested on the palms of her hands, looking up at the changing night. The moon had disappeared below the tree line.

Exhaustion set in. I couldn't wait for my head to hit my pillow with the memory of a kiss to melt into.

"There was someone." She said quietly.

I had guessed. "The guy you wanted to escort you to the ball?"

She gazed at the pool, her expression bittersweet. "Yeah. He asked to take me and I said yes. Then my mom put her foot down and made me go with Peter. It was so horrible and awkward when I told him. He left a month later. His parents moved to Texas and he went with them even though he could have stayed with his grandparents. I think he thought I didn't like him."

"But you did."

"So much."

"What was his name?"

"Jasper," she said with a half-smile. She looked at me ruefully from the corner of her eye. "I'm sorry, it's tacky to bring that up after we just made out."

No. It wasn't flattering to hear about some guy she held a candle for immediately after making out with me, but I couldn't come up with a reason to lose sleep over it, either. "It's alright. It's just my luck," I said feigning disappointment. "A hot girl like you doesn't want to marry me after one kiss. I'm losing my edge."

"Stop!" She slapped my arm. "And it was more than one kiss."

"It was a good kiss."

"A great fucking kiss."

I smiled. I was so tired right then, I could have fallen asleep on the concrete.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"What about you? I _know_ you're not winging this."

Little did she know. She asked, "What's _her_ name?"

Man, if I had a penny for every time I asked myself that question, I would be rich enough to send a search and rescue mission through the streets of New Orleans.

I hung my head and shrugged. "I don't know yet."

Mary Alice stirred the water with her foot. I think she wanted to hug me. I was glad when she didn't, I wasn't in a pitiful mood.

"I don't know what's worse, knowing who you're supposed to be with when they're not yours or not knowing at all."

"Maybe it's the same thing," I offered.

"How do you handle it?"

"I take it day by day. It's not always lonely being alone. It's not that bad."

She splashed me with her foot. "We can be alone together."

I turned to her and found myself in front of a shy woman trying to be brave and tough. Nothing about tonight led me to believe she wanted casual sex any more than I did. I may have had fun, but I knew where my heart drew the line. No, to me, Mary Alice was the new girl in town, trying desperately to be independent. I gathered she just wanted to be rebellious for once. "Let me guess, you want to slum it up with me just to piss off your mom."

"When you put it that way, it does sound rather appealing."

I laughed loudly, admiring her pugnaciousness. "Your honesty is refreshing."

"Day by day, right?"

"Now you're getting it." I nodded. "Day by day."

* * *

><p>Two weeks after my nightscapade with Mary Alice, I was almost sideswiped by a speeding red truck as I ran on a narrow country road. I cursed after it uselessly with a mouthful of kicked up dust. It put me in a sour mood since it was my favorite route for its peacefulness and soothing views of farmland as far as the eye could see.<p>

I had been enjoying a steady tempo when the truck's horn jarred me out of my reverie, forcing me to stumble forward into a bush. It swerved a hard left, stalling halfway down the opposite bank into an irrigation ditch.

_It would serve you right. _

I straightened as it reversed, expecting a contrite driver to step out and apologize, but the best I got was a hurried "So sorry", yelled out from the driver side. It was a woman's voice and before I could provide crude feedback to that lame apology, she sped off, the flatbed fishtailing dangerously. A dog yelped from the cab and poked its shaggy head out the window, staring back at me bleary-eyed as if accustomed to its owner's recklessness.

It was in a surly state that I rounded the bend and headed back to the gym. Up a short incline, the converted red-bricked firehouse loomed before me. I detoured through the parking lot, noticing that only Caius' car was there. Aro had been away all week on a scouting expedition. I wove through the cars and to my surprise, I halted before a dainty visitor.

After my near-death experience, she was a welcome sight.

I slowed to a jog and walked up to Mary Alice, who stood by her car. As I neared, she put her hand up to her mouth, amazed.

"What happened to you? You looked like you had a fight with a tornado and lost."

"Some jerk almost killed me out there. Ran me off the side of the road and didn't even stop to apologize." She reached up and ran a finger along my shoulder, wiping the dust off on the back pocked of her jeans.

"Maybe they got distracted," she said with mischief.

"What do you mean? There's nothing to distract, it's all crop fields out there."

"Nevermind," she sighed.

I leaned on her car and became distracted myself. It wasn't everyday I had a visitor at the gym. "What brings you here? No offense, but I didn't think I'd see you again."

She looked chagrined but I wasn't ruffled by her absence. I had thought about her, sure, but we didn't exchange numbers and to me, I had filed our night as a fluke.

"So this is your second home?"

"Yeah. I'd give you a tour but Caius is here and…how do I say this? He's weird about women entering his gym. He thinks they'll bring a curse down on his fighters or something. I don't know."

"It's okay. Do they all look like you in there?"

I grinned. "I'm the best."

She put her head back and laughed. "Okay, you. I dropped by to see if you were hungry. Your roommate told me you'd be here."

"I'm always hungry. Look at me. I'm a guy. I want food twenty-four, seven. Are you going to feed me?"

"If you're lucky."

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but are you going to feed me more Triscuits? They're horrible. Please don't feed me diet food. I have an allergic reaction to 'health food'."

She shook her head and reached into the back seat, muttering. Always with the muttering. She unloaded a picnic basket. "_I_ was planning on feasting on fried chicken this afternoon."

Mary Alice opened the lid. "Oh?" I reached in. She snapped it shut on my fingers. "Ow, tease. Keep talking. What else is in there?"

"Biscuits, gravy, potato salad, corn. And sweet tea. And apple pie."

My jaw dropped. "Don't move. Don't move a muscle. Stay right here," I said, backing away. "You are going to save me from a shitty day. Give me twenty. No, ten. Ten minutes. Give me ten to wash up!"

The last thing I heard was her giggling as I sprinted to the showers.

* * *

><p>We picnicked in the park. Mary Alice had settled us on a large blanket, plying me with enough food to stuff an elephant.<p>

I had fallen asleep on my back. I was stirred into a wakeful drowsiness by the sudden presence of a lonely cloud cooling me from the sun. The temperature had dropped, as had my hand to the hip of Mary Alice. She was burrowed, her hair sticking up like a porcupine in the crook of my arm. My eyelids were heavy from a lazy haze and I thought:

If I could stay like this, trapped in time with a girl in my arms, the fullness of my belly, the fullness of the day, my head caught between waking and dreaming – shapeless little cloud above – then maybe that would be okay. Maybe, just maybe I could stop running so fast, I could stop worrying too hard, I could stop thinking too much.

If the Earth would be still for one second, I could make this work, couldn't I? I'd be happy, settled, and comfortable like this? If the breeze would stop tickling my nose for a minute, couldn't I bottle this up, and make it last a lifetime? If the world would stop spinning, wouldn't I no longer dream like man drowning?

If only the world would stop and give me a minute's rest.

Rest before I wake up.

Rest or wake up.

* * *

><p>AN:

I'm grateful for my co-pilot, faireyfan, for straightening me out and reminding me who I'm writing this for. In the meantime, writeontime continues to put up with my dash-lessness. She's also a busy lady, writing a brilliant story. Check out Breaking News if you haven't already.


	7. Chapter 7

**Snowflake – Role Playing – Charlotte's Web – Blood on Paper – Latrodectus**

* * *

><p>"Gentleman Ed, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but quit hogging all the girls."<p>

A svelte, Heidi-looking blonde with swinging pigtails under a cowboy hat held Emmett's attention hostage. She tipped her beer bottle in our direction.

I nodded hello and drank my own, taking a long swallow. Emmett turned to me. "Fuck, man. That was all for you. She looks right past me like I'm chopped liver."

"I think she's too young for you. She's probably a junior. Maybe her mom's hanging around here somewhere."

"You're real funny."

I shrugged. He wasn't talking for kicks, though. I had eyes, the girls were bountiful and I had turned down more than a reasonable amount of free beer since we arrived.

We were sitting on lawn chairs provided by the thoughtful proprietors of a hidden-away blues club just north of town. It was a one-room, concrete terrestrial bunker planted on what used to be a vast cotton field.

It was more shack, and less "club", accessed by driving up a winding dirt road through desolate woods with nothing but high-beams lighting the way. Once the trees parted, a person could hear music in the distance and there, gilded by Christmas lights, was the cheery bonfire that flared between the entrance and makeshift parking lot.

An outdoor speaker system kept the party al fresco, add to that a libation station where they sold bottled beer out of ice-filled aluminum tubs and we were set. Emmett and I had taken up residence on two vacant chairs, and made ourselves comfortable beside the fire, enjoying the music under the chilled star-woven night.

It was January, the first weekend since returning from the Christmas holiday and, as it was our final semester, there was much to plan before graduation. For one, we wanted to go on a trip. Emmett had mentioned Central America, motoring through the jungle like a couple of easy riders. I didn't mind the idea, but I was always partial to the tales I'd heard of the Alaskan wilderness, its rugged landscape and harsh beauty.

We entertained ourselves conjuring up whole scenarios of us breaking bread with the locals on some random Nicaraguan beach town, or stalking game through brush and bush for a picture with caribou. It made for wild discussions. I was plotting the logistics when Emmett interrupted me – another girl had caught his eye.

"That's it. That one's about to gag on that beer bottle for you, she's been staring so hard I think her eyelashes are gonna catch fire."

I laughed. "Jealousy's ugly on you."

"No, seriously. I think seeing's how you locked up your balls for your snowflake, all these girls are sniffing after what they can't get. It's like they're sharks and they can smell the blood rushed up in your cock. It's your blue balls, I'll bet. They can tell a mile away when a man needs…"

"Alright. I can't hear this anymore. What are you smoking? What the hell do you mean by a snowflake?"

"Snowflake, you know. No two are alike. There can be only one. Your girl, the one you're saving generations of Cullens for."

"I get it." _Snowflake_. "You don't have anything to worry about. Maybe you're right and they can sense it, or maybe you're wrong and they see something else."

"What's there to see?"

Emmett followed my gaze. Across the bonfire, talking with her friend, was Mary Alice. A sad, sexy blues note strained out of the loudspeaker. The slide guitar, like a primal wail, roused the girls into a sorceress dance – shoulders swaying and hips tracing figure eights. When girls moved like that you couldn't help but become spellbound.

Mary Alice held two beers in each hand, arms in the air waving with the breeze. Her eyes had been fastened on mine.

Emmett whistled. "Damn. Will you look at that. I thought you two were just friends."

I drank more beer. "We are."

"That's a mighty big grin you got there."

He turned in his seat and assessed me for a long moment, lodged in his chair in serious contemplation. "You know, it's like we're strangers, you and me. We're sitting here catching up like a bunch of old farts. We're roommates for crying out loud. I feel like I'm out of the loop."

"There's no loop.I mean it. Mary Alice and I, we're just friends."

"Friends, huh? Alright, I get it. I've had friends, too," he said casually. "Mindy in Calculus was a generous, generous friend once, she had _friendly_ lips and an ass – "

"We're not friends with benefits." I sank back in my seat. Mary Alice skipped back inside with a group of people. It was just me, and Emmett, and the fire popping sparks on a log.

"We kissed once," I conceded. "Maybe it sounds corny to you, but if I'm smiling, it's because I get to hang out with a cool girl. I get to take her to the movies, share some popcorn, call up and say, 'let's split a pizza.'"

"Nothing wrong with that so long as she knows that's all it is."

"She knows. I think what you're seeing with all those girls is the old, 'want what you can't have'."

"So you're not – "

"I'm not fucking her and I don't even know if what Mary Alice and I are doing would be called 'dating', but those girls saw us get out the car together and you know how it is, suddenly a guy's off the market. That's what they're 'sniffing', like you say. Nothing more than that."

"Don't sell yourself short. Mary Alice or not, they're like sharks circling the raft. I'm telling you, once you get that taken care of," he pointed at my crotch, "there'll be no containing them. Or you."

"You're drunk."

"I'm wise."

"Wise and drunk."

"So she's not the one."

"Nope. I wish."

"Crazy talk."

"It'd be a whole lot easier. I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore, play pretend with some girl just cause we're lonely together." I got up and rounded the bonfire. I grabbed timber and pelted it into the center. I asked the guy selling the beers for the fire poker he kept at his side.

Emmett sat with his elbows on his knees, his bottle dangling between two fingers, a rare quietude overtook his posture.

I sniffed my coat. "I'll smell like smoke now."

"You remember when we were on the AT?"

"Which year?"

"Last one. And you had a bug up your ass to add an extra mile one day just to see the sunset over some ridge. Remember that?"

"Sure."

"Remember how you kept pushing me? I was dog-tired, man, all I wanted to do was take off my shoes for the day but, no, you had to keep moving. You kept pushing me. 'Get to that boulder, Em', you'd say. We would stop for a few seconds – "

"I gave us more than a few seconds' rest, c'mon."

"Regardless, it felt like fucking seconds. I wanted to shove you off the hill. And every time we got to the next milestone, you gave us a new one. You pushed the goal post further and further out. You talked me through it."

"Kept you occupied."

"That you did. When we arrived at the summit, the sun was halfway down the other mountain. Remember that valley? It was the best view I'd ever seen. A pretty valley, golden, straight out of 'Bonanza' – a road, barns, and a pretty lake. I don't know why that hit a chord for me, but it did. I have you to thank for that."

He was staring into the fire. A piece of wood had turned to gray coal, holding its shape under the weight of the new lumber I set on top of it. "I remember that. It was a beautiful sight."

Emmett reached his hand out and I passed him the iron poker. I sat down.

"You said to me that the reason why it was so beautiful, what made it special, was because of the effort. 'If it was easy,' you said to me, 'everyone would be up here.'" He stoked the fire, and poked the miserable piece of coal under the stack of wood until it disintegrated to ash. With nothing to hold its weight, the woodpile caved and a burst of flames shot up sky high.

"Woah!"

"Shit, that was cool!"

"I want to see that again."

"Better not," I said. "I think that guy wants his stick back. He looks pissed over there." Emmett returned the iron poker to its owner reluctantly. When he sat back down, I picked up my beer. "I hear what you're saying. But you don't have to worry about me. I'll admit it's not easy, but I'm not faltering."

He nodded, satisfied. "Never hurts to be reminded, though."

"Cheers to that." We tapped bottles and sat in silence.

After a moment, I had to explain: "Mary Alice and I, we're not compatible like that."

"Like what?"

I spread out my legs and locked my fingers behind my head. "You ever get the feeling like there are all these different sides of you and no one can piece them together? Everyone sees a different part of you but no one knows the _whole_ of you. Shit, I can't explain it. There are days when I'm hanging out with Mary Alice when I wish I for more. I want one person to know every side of me, to _get_ me, through and through. She's not it."

"I know what you mean. People take one look at me and suddenly I'm supposed to go 'bro' on them. Everyone's got a mask, Gentleman Ed. It takes a special person to see past it."

I nodded. "You're right," I sighed. "I'm tired of thinking about it. I have too much on my plate right now anyway. "

"You know what you need?"

I recognized that tone. That tone was heavy with plotting. "You need a plan."

"A plan."

"A plan to find your girl, Gentleman Ed. We need to figure this out. This waiting around shit's for the birds. You're a man of action."

So stuck in my head, I never thought about a plan. I leaned over. "You have my attention."

"Well, let's take a look at the facts. As of now, you've only gone by one method. This process of elimination, but who've you eliminated? One girl you've played tongue hockey with?"

"Sure, but – "

"What else? You got any interests or places where you want to meet this girl? We have to go looking for her."

"Huh." A crazy idea popped into my head. "Well…"

"What? I struck on something. Tell me."

"There was this girl once…I think."

"Go on," he encouraged. "It's more than we have going now."

I told Emmett about the previous April and French Quarter Girl. I hadn't divulged all the details of that night. The next day we had taken to battling our hangovers and it didn't seem like the right time to bring it up. As the days passed, no time was a good time. Almost a year had gone by and every day dulled the experience until it had become a ghost in my heart.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I don't know. I thought you'd think I was crazy."

Emmett pulled back like my words scalded him. "Shit, Gentleman Ed. I _know_ you're crazy. That's the only thing we've proven. Now, you're telling me there's this strange girl walking around in the French Quarter with a black skirt and white blouse talking to trees. You don't know what she looks like, but you think she has dark hair."

"That about sums it up." When he put it that way I truly was a man searching for a snowflake in a blizzard. The odds were astronomical…

"Good enough," said Emmett, slapping his hands and rubbing them like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. "We'll call up reinforcements. We'll get Ben and Mike to come – "

"I don't want them to know."

"They don't have to know. Ben knows his city better than we do and Mike…hell, Mike's just good to have around for the shit talking."

"How are you going to round them up? Mike's shackled to Jessica and I heard Ben's got a girlfriend."

Emmett shook his head and lamented quietly, "He cancelled his porn subscription."

I almost dropped my beer. "Damn. Who's the new girl?"

"Angela, some girl he met when he was back home. A grad student. Biology, I think."

"Huh."

"Don't worry about them. I can pull those two together. Just name the weekend and we'll head out. We'll work out a map. Think about it, a girl like that had to have been noticed by someone else."

He was right, she stood out, but what we were talking about was a long shot. In any event, it _was_ the best plan I had. I could search the area, talk to the fortune-tellers and vendors along the square.

The more I thought about it, the more steam it had. Why not? He had a point. I was going about it the wrong way. Sitting around wasn't going to get me anywhere. At least it was something to do, a proactive approach to keep me from engaging in further pretense with Mary Alice.

I didn't want to admit it, but there were clues that Mary Alice was becoming clingy. They were founded in her all-too-casual comments on my boxing, feeding me lines that I was cut out to be a fighter. I had no stomach for it, and in the short week since she'd been back from Mississippi, it seemed like every day she called to whine to me about her mother, her classes, or her wardrobe.

Emmett was right, I needed to wake up. Too much was at stake, and whether we found French Quarter Girl or not, there was still the matter of graduating.

The band in the blues club finished their first set.

Mary Alice and her friends spilled out of the entrance. She caught my eye and whispered to her friend. She swiveled back to me wearing a teasing pout.

I put my beer down.

"I should probably sober up." I said.

Emmett nodded and asked: "So what do you say? We have a plan?"

Plan? I finally had some real hope. "Next weekend," I said, settling the matter.

"Gentleman Ed, wild horses can't stop us."

We were heading back to New Orleans, the magic city, and I was going to find my girl, come hell or high water.

* * *

><p>Wild horses weren't stopping us, but the next week found me tethered to my unyielding schedule between school and work.<p>

Mary Alice had called me at one point and hung up on a petulant note when I firmly stated New Orleans was a 'guys only' trip. I decided it was time to set clear boundaries upon my return. I couldn't stand it if she blamed me for stringing her along even if what we had was platonic.

I wasn't her first choice nor she mine, but I suspected Mary Alice was using me to give her mother the bird. I wasn't sure what the girl was thinking, in truth, but nothing was going to be straightened out over the phone; I had a trip to take.

The plan was to cross the Louisiana state line on Friday night.

In the meantime, I had to concentrate on my classes and Felix's training schedule at the boxing club.

On paper, I had a light course load. My English credits were complete save for the final paper due to Marcus who wasn't only my independent study advisor but also my mentor.

Under his education, I had managed to publish five essays between two literary journals. While his brothers worked me physically, Marcus oversaw my mental and creative development with no less bullying incitement.

They knew I came loaded with a buried temper and the Volturis capitalized on my potential by rattling my cage. It was all a part of how they were raised, their shared language.

The three were raised in rural Georgia under miserable conditions. Drunk parents and no electricity forced them to grow up 'dog eat dog' until they were old enough to escape their hardscrabble existence. One by one, starting with Aro, they each signed up for the military. After time served they were released into society tougher, brasher men – in body, mind, and spirit.

Marcus, the literary bulldog of the South was protected by tenure as his eccentricities and functioning alcoholism sometimes shed an embarrassing light on the University, which in turn, made him a sought after teacher. He was unapologetic but brilliant, a favorite of the young writing crowd and a thorn in the side to his peers.

The Thursday before I was set to drive three states over, I checked in with him as we had done since my freshman year. He held office hours in his preferred hole-in-the-wall – Riley's.

At four o'clock sharp, I shut the door behind me, snuffing out the bleary winter afternoon sun and descended into the drafty, cavernous bar. The place didn't open until five, but as Riley's longstanding literary barfly, Marcus was allowed entry any time of the day.

Occasionally, I would find him in the middle of a writing fit and there was no cutting-in through the stash of drafts seizing his absolute concentration. On those days, we'd reschedule. "You can't uncork me from the Muse's teat," he would grumble.

We were seated at the bar, penned-in by stools upturned on tabletops and a dark jukebox – a copy of Frost's poetry and a glass of water idled between us.

"Have you and Felix finished the book?"

At the mention of the gentle giant, I smiled.

"Yeah. We're re-reading it. It's been a few months, but he's loving it."

"That is good to hear. And what's he got to say about it?" It was, after all Marcus' suggestion that I tutor Felix with a children's novel.

"He's developed a crush on Charlotte."

"Ah, Charlotte, of course. Every man's fantasy – elegant, witty, steadfast, and a loyal friend." Marcus swirled his water as if it were a tumbler of whiskey, a peculiar habit of his when he was in a reflective mood. "I don't know a boy who's read that book and not secretly wished he could meet one of her kind. I bet he relates to the sensitive Wilbur, doesn't he?"

"Not so much. Yesterday, he said, 'Do you think Wilbur would have stuck it in Charlotte if she had lived?'. I can't say it didn't make for an awkward conversation."

Marcus wheezed a phlegmy laugh reminiscent of his brother, Aro. Both men were tobacco chewers. "Of course he would conceive a provincial notion, he's one of ours, he is. Country boy wouldn't think twice about inter-species copulating."

"I told him the moral of the story was unconditional friendship, not romantic love for those two."

"Or longing. Consider her fate: she lived to build up the confidence of her shy and runty friend, and then when she dies, the bulk of her progeny abandon Wilbur. Some men would kill if a woman abandoned him like that."

"That's a cynical bent, even for you Marcus. Besides, I believe Felix could convince you otherwise."

"What are you going on about? The man only just learned his A-B-Cs after years of getting his head bashed in. Are you going to help him draft a thesis, too?"

I shook my head. "With my help, he's working on a letter to the parole board, pleading on behalf of his girlfriend."

Marcus drank his water and set down his glass. His fingers, constantly rubbing, took to ripping the corners of his paperback. It was the telltale sign that we were venturing into a discussion about my next project.

I braced myself.

"Well good for him," he started neutrally, "But what's this about, son?"

I took the bull by the horns and handed him my treatment. I was the first to admit, it didn't take much thought on my part to come up with it. As I wrote my outline, not once did I sweat over Marcus' reaction, but in the five minutes he spent skimming my words, my shoulders tensed and the silence suffocated me as doubt reared it's ugly head.

"What is this shit?" And there was the Marcus I knew, third brother of the Volturi clan, the rebel academic and one mean, eccentric, sonofabitch. When it came to the written word, he pitched his professor's cloak and came at you with the intellectual gloves on.

"It's my story idea. I want my final paper to be on Felix. I think there's a story there about – "

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"The mother who's a migrant worker picking tomatoes in Lake City, 'the acid rain withering the shaky air' on the AT, _those_ were ideas, son. _Those _were brilliant pieces. Good enough to get published. This shit…you want to write about _Felix_?"

"What's wrong with that? Don't you always say to go after the underrepresented, the voiceless, the miscreants and fringe? He's got a story there, Marcus. He's from a broken home, learned to fight when he was in foster care, beat the system and now he's literate enough to write a letter. He's thirty-five and eight in fights and set to be Aro's best acquisition. He's also the kindest soul to knock a guy out. Tell me his story doesn't deserve some attention."

Marcus didn't look convinced. "I know his story, son, but this is too easy for you."

I wished he hadn't said that, having already admitted as much to myself. I wanted to coast the semester and shadowing a guy I helped train would have been cake for me. Unlike my other subjects, I didn't want to get mired in research again.

Ever since Emmett brought up the quest for French Quarter girl, I'd been too distracted to think of anything else. I couldn't concentrate on giving anyone my best work and I simply didn't have the heart for anything new just then.

"There are too many boxing stories out there, son. I need something else."

"What do you want from me, Marcus?"

He turned his chin down just so, pointing his eyes at me with the seriousness of Mephistopheles challenging Faust and said, "I want your soul."

I wanted to laugh at his melodramatic posturing, but knew better than that. His grim silence forced me to pay him my undivided attention. "You're not bullshitting," I surmised. "You don't know what you're asking of me."

"I'm not asking, I'm telling you. I want you to dig deep, to pull out every scrap of potential you've been hiding, to haul your best instincts out of that trap of yours. I want to see everything you've learned merge into your final opus. I want blood on your final paper. This is your last year, son, don the brass. A story on Felix would have worked three years ago, but you're too close to it, you'll have no objectivity."

He pushed my outline aside. "Get me a new treatment by next Thursday. You have a week."

"You have my treatment, this is what I want to do." I shoved it back to him.

He didn't touch it. "That's not what I'm accepting. You need this grade to graduate."

I was colored in obstinacy, desiring to write about Felix just to be contrary. And Marcus, no fool, took note.

He softened his stance and crossed his arms. "What else is on your plate? A few Bio classes?"

"And labs and lectures," I added quickly.

"Nothing you can't do. Then what?"

I sighed. He was going to micromanage every bit of my time if he had to, damn him. "Felix has a fight in two months. We're ramping up his training and Aro wants me to step it up. He says he needs more hours out of me."

"More hours? Hell, son, don't let my cocksucker brother fool you. He's after you, too. You're not dense. He's making you spar with Felix as a means to train you, too. All you have to do is say 'yes' and he'll have you on a training regimen that would make a grown man weep. Is that what you want?"

I couldn't catch a break. Everywhere, all anyone wanted to do was to _tell_ me what to do. I kept my voice measured, hard enough to cut stone. "It's not what I want and you know it."

A flood of light poured from upstairs and Cindy bounded down, wrapping an apron around her waist. She waved hello, used to having us there, and began prepping the bar for business. Marcus' eyes had never left me. He was staring me down as was customary when he had made up his mind. There was no winning with him; I had to come up with a new proposal.

"Work on it."

"You won't budge?"

"Have I ever?"

No, he hadn't and there was no need to dignify it with an answer.

"Same time, same place," he said, turning to the bartender counting her till. "Give me a shot of rye, Cindy."

That was my cue that office hours were over. I stuffed my worthless draft in my bag, pissed that I was back to square one. When I stepped outside into the parking lot, I could have punched something. I had nothing else up my sleeve and I had a week to figure out how to put my soul on paper.

* * *

><p>Friday. Finally.<p>

I had my bag packed and my mind brimming with several courses of action for finding French Quarter Girl. I was a man with purpose. I woke up at five in the morning and went for a run. I showered, shaved, and dressed as if donning my courtship threads. I had to be prepared for the best possible outcome. There was no room for error.

At breakfast, Emmett asked me for the weather report. It may have been muggy and threatening to rain outside, but on the inside I was a breezy day on a tropical island. You could have told me world peace was achieved overnight and I would have nodded and smiled, unsurprised.

No Alice, gym, nor paper could tear me away from my one true focus. I left my worries behind me.

Emmett had come through. The boys and I were to rendezvous at five in the afternoon, hop in my car – I, too, had become the owner of a Volvo – and drive to New Orleans. Em and I had decided to let Mike and Ben in on my search, however quixotic it was. I needed all the help I could get, and with unflappable confidence, I set out for campus.

I had one class in Evolutionary Biology from noon until two. I came up on the science building, a familiar fixture in the last two years. Biology was not my first choice as a major; it had been a point of contention between dad and I when it was time to declare.

Dad had this image of me as 'Mr. Cullen, the high school teacher'. He wanted me in a suit and tie, or better yet, a lab coat. He didn't want me to be a washed up writer or beat-up fighter living paycheck to paycheck. I got it. I understood where he came from. He didn't want me to be like him, pulling the lever on a punch clock.

So when the time came, I did as he said, but it didn't mean I had to like it.

But that Friday, I was ecstatic and filled with promise as I entered the building. I sat through my class, paid attention, and even shared my notes with the guy sitting next to me – a bespectacled Millhouse with bright, shiny braces. Fifteen minutes before class was over, however, and the TA made an announcement that sent me into a panic.

"Don't forget, you guys. This is your last day to attend a seminar for your first paper. It's a large chunk of your grade, so if you haven't attended our lecture series, you have…" the TA looked at his watch and graced us with a sardonic smile, "exactly fifteen minutes to get to room 1024 for the final seminar. I assume most of you have done so, but if you want to attend a real doozy, I suggest you get your butts over there. It should make for a great show."

My heart raced as if I'd woken from a dream in which I was new to school and expected to ace the math test I never studied for. Except in my case, I really hadn't remembered the lecture series or the paper I was supposed to write.

"What lecture series?" I asked no one in particular.

He blinked owlishly behind his glasses, sliding them up his nose when he responded in a thin and tentative voice. "Animal Ecology – I went on Monday and caught a fascinating lecture on moths..."

"You know…I'm sorry, but I've got to jet. "

"They mentioned it the first day. It's on the syllabus," he continued, flipping through his notebook as if I needed proof that for once, I had mismanaged my time. I wanted to kick myself for the oversight.

I slung my satchel over my shoulder, assuring Millhouse – who turned out to be Frank after he bravely stuck his hand out in introduction – he could keep my notes until the following week.

I excused myself and hustled out of class like a bat out of hell, running down the hall to the newly-renovated wing for room 1024 – a modest-sized auditorium with red, stadium seating. They would have made extra cash had they served popcorn; it was no different than a private theater room. I always fell asleep in there.

But I didn't have to fear rest. A taped-up sheet of paper on 1024's door read in black bold-type:

**CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.**

**TODAY'S LECTURE TO BE HELD IN 'THE DUNGEON'.**

I snickered. _Geek humor._ There was no dungeon to speak of. Hell, you couldn't build a basement in Florida unless you were digging a sinkhole.

The old auditorium was ground level and tucked away in a breezy corner of the old wing, past maze-like corridors.

But I knew a shortcut.

I ran across the hall into the atrium and out one exit, into a blast of sunshine, across a garden courtyard, and through a side entrance to the old building. My detour landed me in a cold and eerie concrete hall. At the end, two oak doors stood sentry in front of 'the dungeon'.

I ran and pulled on the door handle but it was heavy as lead, my body slinked in on itself. I used more force and slid through as my satchel slipped off my shoulder. Before the door swung shut, I recovered it.

I was the last one to enter.

The house was packed. Who knew it was going to be a popular lecture? I had never seen the dungeon filled with so many bodies. I scanned the rows and searched for a place to squeeze in; the best was an uncomfortable plank-like aisle seat to the left of the house.

I took in the lecture hall. The theater's dramatic construct generated excitement with its raised stage bordered by a rectangular archway and velvet, garnet drapes hanging stiffly from the ceiling. In front of the curtains stood an old wooden lectern. The auditorium was abuzz with anticipation of a good show.

I was merely relieved to have made it in the nick of time, ready to check off the day's final task before chucking responsibility and splitting town.

In less than two hours, I'd be in the car to my heart's destination. I knew it was a long shot, a needle in the haystack; my probability of success was low, but it existed. I felt that for once, if I had to believe in anything it was fate.

The lights in the auditorium dimmed; pressing down in my seat, I fantasized about New Orleans. I wanted to be there, as if the physical act of searching would serve to calm me down. I was live-wired, my body humming, my heart broadcasting since that long ago April night, a red beacon newly glowing.

The lecturer's host introduced the speaker. I had time to waste.

I took out my journal and plotted. The first thing I would do was head back to the crime scene. I wrote it all down, working out the map in my head. I had already memorized everything I needed.

_Cover exactly a mile in each direction starting at Jackson Square. Maybe she works there. Start with every nearby business. She looked young enough to be a waitress. Scratch that, just because she wasn't gray doesn't mean she was young, either._

How she looked. That was a bit of a problem. If the guys went off on their own, I had little for them to go on. What did I know of her?

_She was by herself. She sat with her knees to a tree. Was she looking for something? The only items I found were a pair of beads and a – _

The pitchy squeak of the microphone disrupted my flow.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you're in for a treat today. Our guest speaker is well-regarded for her work on arachnids and their ecological impact in both urban and forested environments…"

Professor Vanderlay. He was the host? What a tool. I had James Vanderlay for a zoology class the year prior, and he had bored me to distraction. He taught straight from the textbook, and never strayed, repurposing minor concepts as if they were his own. I was glad he wasn't delivering the lecture, or I'd have brought a pillow. Also, had I been sitting in the front row, I would have had need for a trench coat. He was a spit-talker.

I tuned him out and went back to my journal. I lost myself again. I knew that she was slight of build. I knew she either had her hair pinned back or possibly cut short. I knew she wasn't fair-haired. What else?

_There was so much color that night but she, in her monochrome palette, was the most interesting of all._

"Professor Swan's latest paper was delivered last year at Tulane University, in which she unearthed new discoveries on the mating habits of the black widow."

My head popped up. Tulane! Of course, why hadn't I thought of that? Professor Vanderlay, the magnificent douche, had for once uttered a clever word.

I wrote it down.

_Comb the Universities in New Orleans. Tulane. Loyola._

I didn't _have_ to stop at the French Quarter. If it took me every weekend to look for her there, I would. Combing a larger area sounded daunting, but it only entrenched me to the idea. This was it, my purpose. If my heart were on an EKG monitor, my excitement would rocket off the charts.

There was applause and someone in the back killed the lights. I tapped my pen on my seat and my neighbor shushed me. I apologized and noticed she had a flyer, a write up on the speaker and the topic of the lecture.

I leaned over and whispered, pointing to the print out. "May I see that?"

She handed it over wordlessly, intent on the stage. "Thanks."

The wheels ground as the theater curtains parted. A wide drop screen lowered from the ceiling.

I skimmed the flyer.

**Isabella M. Swan, PhD. Washington State University. Field researcher for World Ecology Foundation, evolutionary biologist, focused primarily on Blac****k Widow mat****ing systems in tropical ecosystems. Responsible for adding five previously undocumented species under Lactrodectus** **genus from equatorial climes: Ivory Coast, Brazil, Guatemala. Work includes authorships for Florida State University (Tallahassee, FL) and Tulane University (New Orleans, LA). **

_New Orleans._

A scream pulled my head up.

My heart raced, startled. A glossy black widow had materialized on the screen, veiled by a web tangled like spun sugar. She sported a red anvil marking on her brilliant black abdomen.

The shuddersome spider banished us from rational thinking and into the closet of our childhood fears. Many squirmed – guys and girls. Some laughed nervously. We were all unsettled.

A chuckle from the podium broke us out of it. Waiting patiently for the audience to gather themselves, smiled a bemused Professor Swan.

From where I sat, just under the filter of dusty projection light, I noticed her.

The sepia shadows flickering on her face, the tall neck as she tapped her notes, and the sharp, white blouse shielding her slender limbs. Her hair was pinned back into a thick braid that snaked over one shoulder.

_No, it couldn't possibly be._

She addressed the balding professor with the ratted ponytail succinctly. "Thank you, James, for your _effusive_ introduction."

To the breath-holding crowd she turned, the black widow pinned to the screen behind her like one terrorized by the mob.

Professor Swan's buttery voice hushed the last of our fidgeting.

She spoke. "Don't worry, she doesn't bite. If she did sink her fangs into your skin and if you were injected with her neurotoxin, chances of survival are ninety-nine percent on your side.

"Contrary to popular belief, a black widow is not as measurably dangerous to humans as she is to her trapped prey and, at times, her male counterpart. Her name, after all, stems from the popular belief that she kills and devours her lover after sex. Yet, this phenomenon rarely occurs in nature. As the most infamous member of the Lactrodectus genus, she has been named for _occasional_ behavior: the rare enjoyment of post-coital lover's soup.

"Wherein, her lover is the soup.

"While we have observed this behavior, the majority of male widows make it out alive. A male spider, for his part, spends his life searching for a mate. Should he happen by her web, he may, in fascination, choose to woo her. He will tap on her messy silk like a suitor knocking at his beloved's door. She will transmit his vibrations and shake out the welcome mat, awaiting him patiently as he eagerly creeps up her sticky stairs.

"As he nears, an astounding realization bashes him on the head – he could be biting off more than he can chew. For up close, she is three hundred times bigger than him, stronger than him, and by dint of her place in their hierarchy; she is, arguably, better than him.

"If he's to survive the encounter, he has to be shrewd, mercilessly patient, and quick. After all, she has spent the majority of her time as a shy and solitary creature. He must assert himself.

"_If_ he is to make it out alive. But that sinister outcome is the stuff of scary movies. Most do live to see another day. Nevertheless, risky sex aside, every widow shares a common trait – they all mate.

"Or so we had been led to believe."

Professor Swan gestured to the screen. "Meet Leah: she let her last suitor go, minus one leg. By all accounts, he's one lucky guy. She, on the other hand, has been newly classified as the only female widow in existence having reached full maturity without ever mating.

"Unlike the rest of her kind, she is the tragic spinster of our tale. All of her life she has hung there, daring a foolish soul to claim her before she's ready. Leah's behavior is a renouncement of the fundamental premise of evolutionary theory.

"My next project focuses on _why _she's holding out or to put it another way: What is the cause of her obstinate behavior? Is she making a choice? Is she a break in the chain? Is she a product of her ecosystem, and will her story alter the definition of natural selection? The questions are limitless, the answers could pose a paradigm shift. The data, as of yet, has been inconclusive.

"However, as the one who found her, I aim to find out."

Professor Swan laid her arms on the podium and leaned in, our attention arrested on her mischievous gaze.

"Good afternoon. My name is Isabella Swan and I like to play with spiders."

She scanned the subdued auditorium deliberately. "Darwin is rolling around in his grave, ladies and gentlemen. After all, Leah, could very well be the biological answer to the age-old fancy of 'love at first sight'. "

Her whole face broke into a smile of unchecked delight.

_My snowflake. _

I closed my journal.

I wasn't going to New Orleans. New Orleans had come to me.

* * *

><p>AN:

And so we conclude Part 1 of Sketches Of Ultimate Love.

In Part 2, Science meets Fiction. We won't go off the tracks, folks, but keep in mind the scientific jargon imparted in the story is for entertainment value only.

My deepest gratitude to WriteOnTime and Faireyfan for their time and support through the first (and for me, significant) part of this journey. Wow, do I love them.


	8. Chapter 8

Sketches of Ultimate Love – Part 2

* * *

><p><strong>Everybody's Talkin'<strong>

* * *

><p>"Ladies and gentlemen, we are at the forefront of an evolutionary revolution. Our work allows us to understand the natural world on a microscopic level, which, by extension, teaches us who we are and where we come from. Remember, you are ambassadors for the biological world that cannot speak for itself. It is your duty to help undo the destructive myths that perpetrate an 'us' versus 'them' mentality.<p>

"My parting words to you are few: stay curious. Respect your place at the top of the food chain and, above all, treat your friends – human and animal, alike – kindly."

Professor Swan brought down the house.

My heart thundered, overtaken by the woman on stage. Her passion was infectious; she inspired me, us – the audience shared my unstoppable smile, infused with common purpose.

Yet while I may have clapped with the rest of them, my connection wasn't with the crowd. It was as if Professor Swan spoke to me directly, urging me to be a better person, to be worthy of this life. I couldn't look away; I didn't want to miss the modest smile on her face, the blotchy pink staining her cheek from the public's affection.

The face: the missing piece to the nighttime odes I had written while ensconced in my room, procrastinating, horny and restless. I filled up notebooks with my sandy fantasies, where I unzipped her dress making up the shapes of her, shifting and erasing scene after scene, never getting it right.

In the flesh, it turned out, _she_ was so much more than I could have ever imagined.

Dear God, she was a woman. I guessed her to be in her thirties, a mystery to me. She wasn't youthfully insecure like Alice, and not even my friend the beauty queen could hold a candle to the Professor.

Her get-up was classic movie star in the role of a pioneer woman in flowing skirt and white blouse, completely covered. If it weren't for the Doc Marten boots – the yellow stitching a defiant give-away – she would otherwise look like a prude. She was unconventional for this part of the world where people dressed like summer had no end.

But the force of her conviction and her fiery lecture couldn't be denied no matter what she wore. She had the lethal combination of beauty and brains, a complete package of restrained sexuality. I wasn't the only one who noticed. Talking about spiders brought her to life; she was luminescent, sexy. Every man in the room sat up.

Professor Vanderley crossed the stage and whispered in her ear. She listened stiffly then nodded. I didn't miss her body language, the spit-talker was too close for her liking.

_And mine. _

What had she done to me?

Vanderley addressed us. "Great news. Professor Swan has agreed to a short Q&A. A microphone has been set up at the bottom of the aisle for those of you with questions. If you have to leave for your next class, please keep it down as you exit the auditorium."

I scrambled, packed my notes, and got line. I had no idea what I'd ask. I figured I would come up with something on the fly. The audience thinned out, but a good-sized group stuck around to hear her speak. Most were guys. Nothing unusual – science was not known as a popular female sport – but what surprised was the barbaric impulse their eagerness elicited. I wanted to pummel my way past every guy ogling her with more than academic interest.

I knew I was no different then them. She was a beautiful affliction and if I were truthful, I couldn't blame a man for catching it.

Professor Vanderley leaned against a desk, his arms crossed, wire-framed glasses halfway up his nose. It was common for faculty to host a visiting speaker like Professor Swan, and as he was the head of the Biology department, it didn't surprise me to see Vanderley by her side. I couldn't make out if his smile was about him or the woman on the stage. It could go either way; he was a self-absorbed buffoon and, according to my female classmates, a casual flirter, the kind so clueless they laughed behind his back. He had the annoying habit of inserting his professional achievements into casual conversation.

Around me people whispered what they knew of her – very little. What I did learn, thus making me incredibly happy, was that she had plans to stick around Tallahassee for the remainder of the semester.

The line was getting shorter and I had no idea what I wanted to ask. I had questions that required more time than a few minutes in a Q&A.

Everyone wanted to know about Leah.

Where was she was found? The Professor said New Orleans. I smiled. I wondered if Leah was discovered on that fateful night.

I didn't have to wait long to find out.

"How did you find her?" she was asked.

Without missing a beat, the Professor responded breezily. "Sheer luck. I had tripped and fell on hands and knees…"

My own knees buckled. _Wow, dirty talk. She had no idea… _

"I'd like to see her in that position." The comment came from the asshole behind me, although for a second I thought I had said it out loud.

"Mind your fucking manners," I turned, shutting him up. He adjusted his bag strap nervously, his pockmarked face bright red from embarrassment.

I turned around and sighed. She was making me lose my mind. I had gone from a rational, easy-going guy to a lust-crazed meathead. I sounded like the brawlers who boxed at my gym, full of grandstanding. It brought to mind something Caius would say to me, "Some things can't be helped."

I caught the tail end of the Professor's answer. She did not find Leah in Jackson Square Park where I saw her last year, but in one of Louisana's swamps.

Finally, it was my turn. I stepped up to the microphone. I became very nervous.

I cleared my throat. My voice didn't crack too badly. "Good afternoon Professor, I'm Edward." I cleared my throat. "I think you should know, your lecture was fascinating today, inspiring even." I willed myself to stop gushing before I derailed.

She smiled politely and her complexion reddened. It settled me. "Thank you, Mister…I'm sorry what did you say your name was again?"

"Edward. Edward Cullen."

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen." She smiled politely and for that moment she was unguarded. She looked…vulnerable. "Did you have a question for me?"

I bucked up and asked her to address the latest studies on wildlife biology in urban centers, specifically in cities with dense populations. I was winging it.

Nonetheless, she brightened at the subject. "Why, yes. It's true we're finding that spiders, and other wildlife for that matter, are reacting to urban stress as evidenced by the chemical changes in their DNA. Everything from exhaust fumes to poisons and chemicals in the water affect them. Normally, behavioral changes occur over decades, even millennia, of course. But we've found that the faster we change and re-construct our landscape – deforestation to allow for malls and highways, as an example – the faster the animal world under our feet adapt as well.

"New York City, Miami, even in Rio De Janeiro, my colleagues have found that spiders are building homes around these habitats. Where before they built webs in a shady root or in the ground, they're now found in clusters around the city. Under park benches, for instance, or simply under the trash bin in a back alley."

"So they're not just in wood-shacks or our garages but thriving in highly populated areas as well."

"Oh, yes, absolutely. More so now than ever before. Their DNA is changing at a rapid pace, meaning their silk, in some cases, have become resilient to big city infrastructure."

"A person visiting any of the places you mentioned would probably run away scared, wouldn't they?"

The Professor laughed at that. "Yes, there's no taking away our childish arachnophobia but even I can concede that the sudden appearance of one under my seat in a popular restaurant would make me start for a millisecond."

"Or maybe," I suggested, "a person could find themselves in a place such as, I don't know, the French Quarter, and a little furry guy can show up sipping his café au lait next to you."

"While eating a beignet," she added mirthfully.

I continued, reckless. "They could be anywhere in that area, right? In April, let's say, across the street in a dark park surrounded by tourists."

At this the Professor's amusement dimmed. I didn't know what to make of her reaction. She had a poker face, neutral as a shield. Had I gone overboard? Had I offered too many details?

The air went out of the room.

Finally, she spoke after a long and torturous pause spanning seconds. "That is all very well and true, Mr. Cullen. You speak of a very precise location and time of year. I would venture to say that should a spider be found in Jackson Square, he would have adapted by parading about in Mardi Gras beads, as you so jokingly put it. Or, maybe, he would do as the locals do and navigate the crush of nosey tourists while minding his own business, yes?" Her retort began cautiously until it she reached the final word. It had a sting to it.

"Thank you for your question."

With that, she dismissed me and gestured to the next person in line.

I stepped aside and sat in the last of the audience cursing my impulsiveness.

_That went over well. _I should have known better than to show my cards. I was confused. Did I see fear darken her brow before she turned away? Surely, she knew I was there that night.

Lost in thought, I almost missed what happened next. A group of guys were talking low next to me, gossiping like a sewing circle, trading profane rumors. It seemed the Professor had arrived under a cloud of mystery. Aside from the flyer in my hand, there was little to go on which, of course, allowed speculation to run rampant. They threw around words like "ice queen", "mad scientist" and "Frankenstein".

"I heard she lost her marbles, man. She was in Africa a few years ago and lived with a tribe. Word was she went crazy after a week cooped up with spiders, like some sort of ritual or something."

"Freaky. She does look strange covered up like that."

"I think she's hiding her spider bites. Why else would she cover up like that? It's Florida, for Pete's sake."

"It's January."

"Yeah, but it's still nice out. No one dresses like that unless they're hiding something."

"She's hot, though."

"I'm not saying I wouldn't do her."

I couldn't take it. I stood up and crouched down next to Mr. Big Mouth, a ponytailed fat guy with food stains on his shirt, holding court over his three friends.

I said hello and addressed them like we were buds. "Sorry to interrupt but I overheard you guys talking, seems like you know Professor Swan well."

"Nah, not really. I'm just telling these guys what I heard from some people in the faculty."

"Yeah, that's awesome," I lied. "Like who?"

"Vanderley, for one."

"I'm not surprised. Who else?"

"Dude, I don't know. I'm just repeating what I heard, people talk. We're just talking right, guys?"

His friends figured it out. The set of my jaw told them I didn't care for their _talking._ They agreed weakly looking everywhere but me.

"I get it. It doesn't matter who said it, right? So long as you have a story to tell your friends when you're all hitting the bong on a Friday night, depressed and dateless when you'd rather be out getting laid. But you can't because you're too chicken shit. Instead, you yap your mouth and spin lies so your friends think you're clever."

"Hey man – "

"But you're not clever, you're an idiot. That's a person's reputation you're fucking with, asshole. Shut your trap and get a life."

I got up and left him stuttering an apology. People had a lot of nerve to spread trash and it made me angry. It put me back in my small town, back to high school where if you weren't a conformist then you were a freak. The woman was a champion of spiders and more than that, her cause was bigger, it involved looking at life in broader terms. How could anyone make light of that? But if, indeed, Vanderley was spreading the rumors, I wouldn't be surprised it was meant to undermine her.

I had to find out what was going on. So many questions and the lecture was over. I froze; the Professor had darted out the side exit.

_Relax. __She's here through the semester. You'll see her again._

As much as I wanted to I knew I couldn't run after her like a lovesick fool. I wondered how many men approached her as it was. I was probably but a blip on her radar. But that was okay for I had to be satisfied that she was here.

She was here. I couldn't get over it.

Unlike New Orleans, I would pursue. I was biding my time.

I sighed and left the way I came, travelling under the hum of institutional lights. I couldn't believe my luck. The weight of searching had lifted. I wouldn't let gossip ruin my day; I found her. Or she found me. I supposed it didn't matter, we were here.

I exited into sunshine.

This was my game changer.

Isabella Swan was here and I couldn't stop smiling about it.

Isabella was here. _Isa-bell-aaa_. Stripped of formality, her given name made feel like a peeping tom. It was illicit and deeply private.

For my own well-being I decided to stick with 'Professor Swan', professional and far enough removed from crossing the boundary into crude thoughts. I already lived uncomfortably in my jeans, like I needed to introduce more pain.

I was across campus when I took in my bearings and found that I was nowhere near my car. The woman had rendered me deaf, blind, and dumb.

Case in point, I almost died crossing the street.

"Watch where you're going!" yelled a guy out of a truck, screeching to a stop at the crosswalk and getting no reaction out of me. I didn't blink.

I was so happy, I walked up to the passenger window and announced like a fool: "I've just met the woman of my dreams."

The driver, surly under a tight-knit cap and workman's jacket, waved me off. He looked me up and down and shook his head: "Congratulations, Romeo." The light turned green and he offered me words of wisdom. "But do me a favor and stay the off the damn road. You want to see her again, don't ya?" With that gem, he took off, stranding me in a billow of black smoke. I coughed.

Ah, but he was right. I needed to see her again. I had to concoct a plan, but first I needed data. The lecture left me with more questions than answers and there was only one person to call for this line of work.

Emmett answered on the first ring.

"Hey, man. Gather the troops, we have a change of plans."

* * *

><p>I was on cloud nine when I pulled into my apartment complex. I skipped up the stairs and clicked my heels at the top of the landing like I was the starry-eyed lead in a musical. I was in such a good mood, I practically levitated.<p>

I opened the door and the guys were sitting around the coffee table stacked with pizza boxes three layers high. Ben and Mike sat on the couch and Emmett took up the window seat.

"How's the weather, Gentleman Ed?"

"Hey, man!"

"Cullen, we didn't order you a pizza since you didn't say if you were hungry or not," said Ben with a mouthful of pepperoni.

"The weather's blue skies and sunshine, Emmett. Hey, Mike."

Even Ben's ribbing was welcome sport. I kicked his foot off the table. "People eat on this thing and no one said anything about ordering food."

I lifted the lid on the top box and glared at Mike. "Really? Veggie? If anyone would share, it'd be you and all you get is veggie?"

"Jessica's a vegetarian. You know that. Pretty much makes me a vegetarian." He responded like the obedient boyfriend he had become. Coiffed and tucked-in, Mike no longer resembled the crumpled stoner of freshman year. Jessica's dad even got him on the guest list at the country club. La-di-da.

Emmett plucked the bottom box from the stack and balanced it on his lap. "One of these days your mouth is going to get you into trouble, Ben." He addressed me. "We got you one, buddy. It's in the kitchen. Cheese, extra sauce."

I thanked him but I was too jazzed up to sit and eat, all teasing aside. They tucked into their dinner as I said matter-of-factly, "I'm not hungry."

I heard them stop eating mid-chew.

Emmett started in first, and then it became just noise. "I have no words for that. You're always hungry."

"Who died?" asked Mike.

"Are you sick? You always eat."

"Who are you and what have you done with Edward?"

"Is it because we're not going out of town? Emmett said we're not going."

"Why aren't we going to New Orleans?"

"We can't go to New Orleans," I chose to answer Ben, quieting them. "Because I found what I'm looking for."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I started from the beginning, which for this crowd was New Orleans last April – the absinthe, drinking coffees at the Café Du Monde. I told them the truth. I was bewitched that night by a woman I hadn't been able to get out of my head. I told them the plan I hatched with Emmett and how we were going to split up and search for her.

I told them about the lecture and discovering that she truly did exist.

"She was amazing. Brilliant! I've never seen a person command an audience like that. I mean by the end of it," I walked over to Emmett and refrained from gripping his shoulders, "I was shaking. She was magnificent."

"What was the lecture on?" Emmett asked.

"Spiders."

"Gross."

"Creepy."

Ben looked disgusted. "You mean to tell me, we were going to drive six hours to look for a girl you got a hunch on instead of going to Madame Adrianne's?"

"Those Jell-O fights are legendary," Mike added woefully.

"Guys. Listen up, our buddy here had to put up with our grousing over girls for the last three years. Least we can do is give him the floor."

Mike said to Ben. "Did you hear what he said? She's into spiders. Those nasty eight-legged things that pounce on you and – "

"…crawl up your back," intoned Ben in his crypt keeper voice.

"Children, grow up. That's her point," I turned to Mike, whose posture had sunk into the cushions as if I possessed the black, glossy eyes of an arachnid. "Everyone fears what they don't understand. They're not dangerous to us. It's the other way around, don't you see?"

"Sounds like she has a convert."

I know I sounded like I had tasted the Professor's Kool-Aid but she spoke about concepts in the natural world - conservations, ecosystems – wrapped up in truth and beauty like a messenger from another time. She was much more than a spider lady, she loved the world she inhabited. She wanted to preserve it.

_There was no hope for me. _

"Yeah, Ben, I am a convert. You should have heard her. It was transforming."

Ben and Emmett stared at me, stupefied. Mike was the bobble-head doll of Bozo the Clown.

"Dude," he said, "you are fucked."

_Oh, __I hoped so. _

It wasn't every day I wanted to know what someone looked like in the morning. Did she awaken rumpled? Did she stretch like a cat? Did she sprint out of bed at the sound of the alarm or did she laze? I was fascinated by every intimate detail I dreamed up. But for all the lust, I also craved her voice. I wanted to talk to her for great lengths of time, to tell her everything I felt, all the people I had met and the places I had been and, in turn, I wanted her to share her stories with me.

"It's okay," said Mike when I didn't answer, my face confirming it. "I feel that way when Jessica's nice to me. You know, like, when she compliments my hair or thanks me after I do this thing with my tongue that she likes – "

"We get it." Ben put his hand up. "You two should just get married already. She's already got your balls locked up. She has you golfing with her dad, Newton. Next, you'll be at the young Republicans convention."

"Shut up. You wish you had what we have. Right, Edward?"

I began to pace. Mike was wrong to say "we" had anything. He had a girlfriend. I had nothing but a two-minute conversation to my name. "I can't put the cart before the horse, Mike. There's still the small matter of, oh, I don't know, a proper introduction."

"Don't talk to Mike about relationships," Ben said. "I'm right here, man. If you need advice, come to me." He made a show of stretching and cracking his knuckles. "I'll let you in on all the secrets of the female species." He paused like he caught wind of something foul. "Hold on a sec, hold on a sec. If she's a professor, how old is she? What is she, a prodigy?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, she could be in her thirties. Does it matter? She doesn't dress like a student and she doesn't look like a mom, either."

"That could mean _anything_."

"Who cares about her age?" Emmett said. "And not a peep out of you, Ben. What I want to know is, who the hell is she?"

"Isabella Swan. She's here on research. That's all I know, except – "

"As in Dr. Swan? Professor Swan or whatever?" asked Ben.

Doctor Swan sounded so clinical, however true to form. It didn't have the same ring and _Professor._ "That's typically how it goes with a standard salutation, yeah. What are you driving at?"

"I think I know who she is."

"You're a business major, how would you know the science faculty?"

"'Cause, Mike, you're not the only one with a girlfriend." Ben snapped his fingers. "Angela. She knows."

"What does she know, Ben?"

Ben was usually all talk, but his tone told me he was in possession of valuable information that I wanted and he enjoyed that idea very much. "Angela's her research assistant. I think."

My heart rate sped up. "What do you mean, you think? C'mon, man. Is she or isn't she?"

"Where'd Swan hail from, you say?"

"_Professor_ Swan. She arrived from Tulane."

"Makes sense. I met Angie when they busted me for hacking into the University's system over the summer. Child's play, that. I was bored."

Emmett pointed a finger at him. "Dude, one of these days you're going to jail for that shit."

"I'll have you know, they offered me a position in their IT department. Big money in security, so they found out."

"How'd you meet her?" Mike asked. I bit my tongue from cutting in, impatient, but I wasn't an interrupting dick like Ben.

He was smug. "It was her password that got me into the University's grid to begin with. What can I say, I read a few blog posts and a very sweet e-mail to her mother saying 'stay out of my fucking life', and voila, she grabbed my attention."

"Of course, she's just like you."

"On the contrary, she's nothing like me. She's a delicate flower, a lawful citizen, easy on the eyes, and has a thing for short guys."

"Did you have to club her and drag her to your cave?"

"Mike? You ever heard of opposites attract, numbnuts?"

"And that's all she wrote," said Em, cutting us off from another round of in-fighting. "What we need to do here is get Edward an audience with Angela. Ben, you're up, buddy."

We swung our heads to Ben, who lifted his brow like the rat with the biggest hunk of cheese. "What's in it for me?"

"Well," Emmett said, pulling his legs off the window seat and resting elbows on knees. "I could Sharpie your nuts after you've passed out from a World of Warcraft bender. It's been known to happen before."

Ben scowled. "Took weeks to get that shit off. Assholes. All of you." He held out his hand. "Cullen, pass me the phone. We're using _your_ minutes for this."

* * *

><p>I was in the kitchen, zoned out in front of the microwave, thinking about her. I saw her reflection off the black glass while my pizza spun on the tray. My appetite had reappeared but it was still no match for my all-consuming distraction.<p>

Emmett hung at the doorway of our galley kitchen with a grin on his face. Ben had made the call and convinced his girlfriend to come over to a stranger's apartment right away. Angela was expected to arrive within the hour and I was anxious. It would be my one opportunity to speak with someone from the Professor's inner circle.

"I think it's done." Emmett gestured to the microwave. I reached for the too-hot slice. "Here." He threw me a roll of paper towels.

"Thanks."

"You sure this is your snowflake?"

"There's none like her, Em. None."

"So an older woman, huh?" He didn't waste any time.

I took a bite of pie. "She's not wet behind the ears, that's for sure. I think you're on to something with that."

He laughed. "They're in a league of their own, Gentleman Ed. What's she look like?"

I sat on the counter and chewed slowly, recalling the vision at the lectern. "Stunning. You know how the lights in the auditorium can be harsh?"

"Not flattering."

"Yeah, well, that didn't diminish a thing. She's hot." I set my dinner down and scrub my chest with the heel of my hand. "I don't know how else to say it without sounding like a Chachi. I bet every guy there had her naked in their heads."

"So what, that's how we do, man."

"It's not about that for me. I don't want her to think I'm like the rest of them."

"But you want to fuck her."

That wasn't the word I would have used but it was in the right spirit, if I were honest. My face showed disapproval but Emmett challenged me, he crossed his arms and dropped his head to the side like 'go ahead and lie, deny the randy fantasies'. He was right, I was dying for it.

"Fine, yeah. I want to fuck her." He started to smile. "I want to do bad, bad things to her," I joked, though it sounded odd rolling off my tongue. "Thing is she dresses like a schoolmarm. She's so covered up I have this urge to unwrap her." I demonstrated with both hands like she was right in front of me wearing a pretty bow around her body. "Slowly, piece-by-piece."

Emmett nodded, _I told you so_.

"But I want more than that."

"Sure you do, but you're a twenty-one-year-old virgin with all the blood in his balls right now, man, _of course_ you want Dr. Nasty to come out and play. Don't bottle that shit up. If you want to get to know her better, I suggest you ramp up the charm. And I don't mean flash your smile and say 'please'. I'm talking sex appeal, Gentleman Ed. It starts right here with these." He pointed to his crotch as if I needed a map. "Older women aren't like chicks like Alice. They're not shy. They already figured out what they _don't_ want in a guy. They've seen all the moves. If she's as attractive as you say, you won't be the first guy calling. Show her the _whole_ package. Let her know you want her."

I barked out a nervous laugh. Asshole was getting me worked up, worried and aroused by the challenge. "Stop. I'd like to talk to her first and then I'll bust out the package. Shit. You know what I mean."

"Think with both heads, brother, it'll make you feel better. Less blue." He pointed to my dick and laughed at my expense.

"Fucking comedian, you."

"I've never seen you like this."

I hopped off the counter and pulled two beers from the fridge. "I've never felt like this."

"You look…_happy_."

I popped the caps and handed one to Emmett. He was right. Before, I played the happy-go-lucky guy, maybe a bit of a brooder but always well-adjusted. But this was new for me, like I was a stranger in my body. My world used to be comprised of my friends and my dad, school and boxing, but then out of nowhere Professor Swan showed up and took center stage. Literally.

"Listen, man, I hate to interrupt whatever fantasy's got you grinning like boy with a lollipop. Don't look surprised. I've worn that look."

"That obvious?"

"Like a bull's-eye." He took a drink of beer and gestured to me. "I've been trying to get your attention all week. Did you get the note I left you?"

"What note?"

His hand searched the top of the fridge and found a scrap of paper scribbled with 'Rose Called'.

I took it from him. "Really? I was supposed to see this?"

"I didn't have an extra magnet for it."

Ignoring his shit message-taking skills, I asked if he spoke with her. He nodded.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing much. Her mom's got a job at the mall?"

That was news. "She never leaves her house."

The Hales didn't lack for money. Rose's dad left them with a sizable trust before he took off for a younger model, and Mrs. Hale always moaned that she was too depressed and old to work – the latter was hogwash. Rose understood that her mother clung to her past life as a privileged wife with too much zeal, but she didn't feel it was her place to comment on it.

Emmett filled in the blanks: everything had changed. Mrs. Hale, it turned out, had gone bored out of her mind since Rose's latest promotion. Simple as that. It drove her crazy to be cooped up so she drove herself to the mall and filled out applications, desperate for a new routine. This made Rose so happy, she had to call and tell me all about it.

It dawned on me that Emmett had real insider information, which meant that she spilled to him instead, and not me. Rose – the girl who rendered Emmett 'Bear' McCarty dumb as rocks. Their conversation would have required syllables and words.

Emmett kept talking and all I could think was, _that was a long conversation, buddy. _

He went on to remind me that her birthday was coming up on Valentine's Day. We should do something for her, he suggested. We should buy her a ticket and bring her down. "She's never been to Florida," he said as if I didn't know these basic facts about Rose.

"Since when are you two phone buddies?"

His ears pinked.

"I don't know. Over the holidays?"

"I thought it was one message. What do you mean over the holidays? You were at your mom's."

"Yeah. I was."

"And I was back home. She didn't tell me anything about this."

"What's there to tell? So we talk, nothing wrong with that."

Rationally? He was right. Was I powered on reason, though? No.

The news blindsided me. There were worse things than two of your favorite people getting to know one another, but that meant she had _him_ to share her good news with, she was catching up with _him_ like they were old buds.

I grew up learning how to share but I struggled being charitable over Rose. I knew it wasn't a big deal, but the worst-case scenario ran through my head – what if she and Emmett hooked up and one of them got hurt? It would be disastrous.

_Or they could make each other __happy._

Maybe it was my mood, but I took a step back and let it go for my own sanity. Worrying wouldn't change that fact that they had established contact.

I took a bite of pizza and leaned on the counter. I wondered what the deal was with them. "There's nothing wrong with talking," I conceded. "What do you guys talk about?"

"Nothing much. Her mom, my mom."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She tells me about her dates."

"She has a propensity for picking assholes."

"Don't I know it," he agreed quickly. "She's a live one, though. She doesn't bullshit."

"Nope. And you want to bring her here for her birthday?"

"Yeah. Let's chip in and fly her down here for Spring Break."

"We'll have to ask…"

"She knows she can get the time off."

"You guys talked about it already?"

"That's what the note was about, Gentleman Ed. She wanted to ask you if it was okay."

"She's silly. Of course it's okay. Where will she stay?"

"Couch. Hotel. Wherever she wants."

"She won't want to stay with us."

"Let me figure it out."

I wiped my hands of it and nodded. "Handle the details," I said. "But take this for what it's worth: she's been through a lot, Em. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't make me want to hurt you, but that's just a natural reaction coming from me, right? She's like family and you're my best friend. If you have romantic intentions toward her – "

"Dude, chill – "

"I don't want to hear about it. I want to see her happy, and it would hurt me _personally_ if that happiness was interrupted by you, best friend or not."

"Chill. I get it. One day, buddy, you won't underestimate me like you do."

"I don't."

"Sure you do. It's alright. I didn't start out on the best foot when we met, I know, but nothing's going on with me and Rose, we're friends."

Hearing him call me out cleared my head. He was right, I was being harsh. I judged him for his blatant womanizing but that's not all there was to Emmett. I saw a guy that took care of his mother and stuck by his friends, ready with a laugh and a hand. I never heard him lie to a girl, either. He never hid who he was and he lived every day with gusto.

He was a fighter like the rest of us, and I offered my hand in solidarity. We shook on it, having said our piece like we always did. The tension was short-lived.

When it came down to it, Rose's forthcoming visit was welcome news. Excited, we chatted about the details.

"She's going to love it here," I said. Then it hit me, talking on the phone was one thing but suddenly, I wondered if they could be in the same room without Emmett freaking out. I snickered.

"What?"

I said nothing.

"ANGELA'S HERE," yelled Mike.

"This isn't a mansion, man. We're right here." Emmett turned back to me, he smacked the countertop. "It's showtime!"

* * *

><p>Angela Weber was a pretty reed of a girl. Ben didn't lie, she was a delicate flower – a tall, leaning stem upon which rested the head of a dark-haired girl wearing bespectacled, earnest eyes. She looked like she would be perfectly content cataloging spiders in a lab rather than sit in a roomful of strangers.<p>

As it happened, she was shy and comfortable only when clutching Ben's arm. They sat on the sofa and I felt like I was playing a game of 'which of these things do not belong with the other'. Ben looked like a badger with an ascot, haughty and smug at the same time for having nabbed a girl who genuinely liked him back. I never would have believed her to be his type, but in that moment they made perfect sense together.

To his credit, Ben became dutiful (and quiet) in her presence.

"Why am I here?" she whispered to him.

I glared at Ben. "You didn't tell her why she's here?"

"I thought it'd be better if you tell her yourself, man."

Angela's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Tell me what, Ben? You guys are freaking me out."

"Don't fuss, sugarpants. Cullen here is batty for your Professor Swan, that's all. He thinks he's in love with her."

"He what?"

"Woah, wait, Ben. You need to work on your tact or better yet, silence. Work on shutting up for now." I moved carefully in front of Angela, knowing that the moment could make or break me. I needed all the help I could get if I was going to have a shot at the Professor. My odds had been good all day, but I was not about to lean on luck to get the job done.

I sat on the coffee table in front of Angela and gently pried her hands off of Ben's arm. I needed her trust. I smiled like a long lost friend. I took each hand in mine and held on.

I spoke carefully. "Today I saw Professor Swan's lecture. To say it was transforming is to put it mildly." Angela relaxed and looked from Ben to me. He leaned over and nodded like my declaration was, indeed, a sad truth. "She left before I could speak with her further."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"I found out she doesn't have office hours and she's not on staff. To be frank, she's a mystery. I'd like to know what I'm getting myself into before I knock on her door."

Angela's eyes roamed across my face, a spotlight searching for signs of trouble. I squeezed her hand, not sure if such a random request would send her running for the hills. I didn't break our gaze, but I was tempted to do so because it was shameful what I was about to say next. I pressed on. "A bunch of guys were spreading rumors."

It was Emmett's voice that broke through the chorus: "What rumors?"

"You never said anything about rumors."

"Swan gets stranger and stranger."

I ignored them and tugged on Angela's hand. Her lips drew into a hard line but she spoke evenly. "Do you believe them?"

"I don't. I believe some people can't help spreading tall tales of things they don't understand."

"Tell me, Edward, why are you so interested in her? I should tell you straight away that she is a good person and I'm not comfortable talking about her behind her back."

"I'm not looking for gossip. I mean it when I say that listening to her speak woke me up somehow. She makes it sound like spiders are the most beautiful creatures on the planet, and just when I want to know more, she leaves the building, then I find out she's unreachable."

"And that she's a mad scientist, right." Angela repeated the words I had heard earlier but hers were laced with disgust. She dropped her initial nervousness. I saw how Ben could be taken by her, the shy bird breathed fire.

"They're all lies," she continued. "It's so stupid. I've heard people talk about her like she's gone mad. When she returned from the Congo years ago with two new specimens, they talked about it like such a feat could only be achieved by a man. As if a woman in a skirt couldn't also live amongst a tribe and convince them to stop using the Latrodectus as poison. They were killing their best defense against pestilence. She saved that tribe _and_ she walked out of there with two new species. All while staying perfectly sane!"

"Dude, Edward, run while you still can."

"Shut up, Mike."

"That's bad ass," said Emmett.

"She's a perfect role model for women in my field. I owe her a lot and I can't stand when people talk about her like that."

Ben placed a hand on Angela, "Honey."

She shrugged him off. "Don't 'honey' me, it's true. She's had more success than the most experienced researchers around. This is her life. She lives and breathes it and just because an attractive woman has a passion for science and not just any science, oh no, specifically the study of spiders because it can't be any creeper than that, then it must mean she's nuts or, worse, she's an ice queen like her subject."

"I heard that, too." I admitted.

"Of course, you did, that's the popular one. They think she's Leah – a spinster, a virgin at her age, cold to men and calculating. So stupid."

"Who's Leah?" asked Ben.

"Leah is her latest subject. A black widow that hasn't mated. It's rare for a specimen not to mate – "

Angela's phrasing caught my attention. "You say it's rare, but the Professor said it has never happened before."

"I…um, shouldn't have said that." Her shoulders slumped and with a look, she implored me to keep her next words between us. "She doesn't have enough data so she's called up all of her resources and established watch centers in strategic parts of the world. A day ago she got really good news."

"Good news," I prompted.

"That's all I can say, Edward. I'm sorry. You seem like a nice guy but I can't entrust her private research to a stranger."

"I don't care about that. I just want the opportunity to talk to her." I stood up and paced. The room was no longer cast in afternoon light. The day was almost over but my mind was still in that lecture hall with her. Would the few minutes we spoke be the only chance I had? Did I blow it?

I said out loud to no one in particular, "I'm not surprised that her work is shrouded in secrecy. She told me as much."

Angela sat up. "What do you mean? You spoke to her?"

I mentioned the question and answer session. I told Angela about New Orleans, that I saw the Professor there, leaving out her effect on me. Angela shook her head and regarded me with pity.

"Edward, this is going to sound like she is crazy but bear with me. She's a scientist, the best work isn't done in the lab, it's done in the field. I have a guess she was there collecting a specimen for Leah or dropping him off when she rebuffed his advances. It's against protocol to do this when the subject is under study in a lab. But, um, Professor Swan does get attached to the spiders and her methods have always been…unorthodox."

"I'm sorry but that's just crazy. We're talking about spiders. They're poisonous! I can't shake it."

"Shut. Up. Mike." I wanted to pounce on him. Not because he couldn't drop it but because Angela distressed and the last thing I needed was for her to split before I could gain more information on the Professor.

Emmett intervened. "Mike, you're not helping. I won't hold him back if decides to bitch slap you. We're here for support."

"Jeesh, I was just making an observation, no need to get violent. I'm gonna get myself a beer. Takers?"

Everyone held up a hand but Angela. "I'll bring the lady a glass of Chablis," quipped Mike on his way to the kitchen.

"We don't have Chablis."

"Beer it is," he called out.

Angela was impatient. "What, exactly, do you want with her anyway? She's doing credible research and if you're out to undermine it, provoking her won't get you anywhere. She knows how to stay away from people like you."

I frowned and opened my mouth to speak, Ben beat me to it. "Angie, you don't know what you're saying. Edward's not out to hurt her. He just wants to talk to her."

Mike returned, handing out beers. Angela acted like caged prey in my living room. "Why?" she pled.

"If you give me five minutes, I'd like to speak with you alone. Will you?"

Ben squeezed her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She sagged and nodded, resigned to my request. Emmett and Mike were still as stone, no doubt scared to breathe in front of her. She wavered and I took my chance before she changed her mind. "Can you guys give us a few minutes?"

With a kiss on her cheek, Ben stepped out onto the landing and the guys followed. I sat on the coffee table again and stated my case.

"All my life I've imagined finding someone that would excite me, overtake me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I can't stop thinking about her. I haven't stopped thinking about her since I saw her last year. I don't know how to explain what happened without sounding like a fool, and maybe it doesn't matter so much – to be a fool – but I have no pride right now, just this deep knowledge that when I'm near her, I respond with everything I have. Today was the first time I learned her name, saw her face, and yet she's the woman I've been dreaming about for years."

"You're serious?"

"She made me come alive today, Angela. You've seen it; you know she has that effect on people. On me, it's a hundred times more. I don't have nefarious plans; I don't even really have a plan. I just want a chance to see her again. Speak with her in any way I'm able." I bared my heart to a stranger. I knew I came off as crazy so what was more? I couldn't believe what I was about to say. "Help me, Angela. Please, you're my only hope."

Angela giggled, bringing her hand to her mouth. "Star Wars? Oh my, maybe you _are_ harmless, Edward." She sighed, and I was relieved to see her smile as she told me about the Professor. "She's not always like that, you know."

"Like what?"

"Personable. She's nice, don't get me wrong. But she's very private and people see that as cold. What you saw today was her in every way, but that's because she was talking about her life's work. It's what she enjoys. I don't know her on a personal level."

Angela got up. "I can't think sitting down." She strode to the window seat and considered her next words. "You're telling me you want to court a woman who's older than you, has traveled extensively, is obsessed with academia and, you'll find this out soon enough, awkward in every scenario that does not involve a lab, a swamp, or a lecture."

"In a nutshell, yes."

"You know what they say about her..."

"The 'ice queen' bullshit, I don't believe."

"Good, you shouldn't. She's not mean but she does come off as eccentric because she is focused solely on her work. Some people are taken aback by her reclusion. I don't think I've ever heard her talk about a movie or a restaurant she's been to." Angela shrugged. "Once you know her, though, she's really funny."

"She doesn't take as well to strangers as she does her subject, then."

"She understands spiders. They make sense to her. Honestly, I've worked with Professor Swan for two years and I've never called her by her first name."

"Isabella," I said, the name getting me hot under the collar.

"Bella, actually. At least, that's what I've heard a rare few call her. But I've never thought that odd. We talk shop, Edward, nothing else. I wouldn't even know how to get you near her."

"Why is she here?"

"Oh, she's here for the 'F-word' as we like to say." Angela found her joke funny and laughed when I sputtered up my beer. "Oh, you should see your face, it's priceless. I mean 'F' for _funding_. She's applying for a grant to fund her Leah project. The rest of her time is spent between campus and field work."

"Does she have an office?"

"Sure, it's practically a broom closet but I'm not sure direct contact is the best thing for you right now. You've already provoked her with your smart comment about New Orleans. She'll be suspicious. In our line of work, it's a race to be at the forefront of discovery. She's not naturally paranoid but no one likes their methods questioned."

I put my head in my hands. Did I real screw up my chances before I even began?

"Is it safe to come back in?" Ben poked his head in and glanced at me, defeated. He said to his girl. "C'mon, Angie, help the guy out."

Emmett and Mike returned and someone handed me a beer. My first one had barely been touched. I was digesting Angela's advice, drowning in crazy ideas, some illegal, to get near the Professor when she finally threw me a bone.

"I have a suggestion."

I perked up at her voice. "In a few weeks, the Professor and I are supposed to attend a mixer. She doesn't want to go but we have to if we're to play nice. Unfortunately, we can't win a grant on her paper alone. It's all so political."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"James Vanderley is also seeking a grant, and he's going to be there. He'll be schmoozing with the bigwigs in the department and Professor Swan has to be there, too. Besides, for all the talk, she's their latest darling. Social stuff she hates, though. Anyway, I can bring a date."

"Atta girl!"

"Yes."

Emmett slapped my back in celebration and I reveled in the excellent news. We clinked our beers and chugged. Ben kissed his sweetheart.

The mood swung from apprehensive to festive and Angela coolly accepted a beer from a chastened Mike. She patted his head like a child.

"How will you introduce him?" Emmett asked.

"I don't know, perhaps just a student working on a project. We can come up with something. You don't mind if your friend accompanies me, do you Ben?"

Ben guffawed, the guy had no lack of self-confidence. His 'edge' had secured the girl before him and he looked proud of her sense of mischief. "Please, sugarbritches, he's got nothing on me. Cullen's about to embark on a seriously dumb idea and I can't wait to find out how this spider lady is going to bite him. Ouch!" Angela's bony elbow to Ben's side made us wince collectively.

"No more talk of that. Edward, you be careful and be nice." She looked at us, regarding the motley crew in the room and finally, the last of her walls crumbled. She gushed. "I have to admit, I don't have a clue how she'll receive you. Now you've made me curious." Not half a beer in and Angela was loose and hiccupping. I picked up my own bottle and joined the party.

Life was good. I had a chance to see her in two weeks.

My stomach dropped. _Two weeks_. I had to eat sometime and if the day was any indicator, I'd starve and dehydrate to death, this love business made me pitiful. I had to wait fourteen days to see her?

"I know that look."

The rest of the guys and Angela had convened in the kitchen. I heard Ben yell "Tequila" when Emmett approached me.

"I can't wait two weeks," I muttered.

"What are you going to do? You heard Angela, your best bet is to go through her."

"No," I shook my head, obstinate, a plan forming. It was rudimentary, unpolished, totally off the cuff. "I have an idea."

"This is trouble. You sound like me."

Yeah, I did. It sounded good in my head, though, too good. I got why Emmett took risks. It was _thrilling_.

"You're going to mess this up."

"Don't bet on it," I said, lit from the inside out. "I'm going to get the girl."

* * *

><p>AN:

WriteOnTime and faireyfan are wonderful moms and my most esteemed editors.


	9. Chapter 9

For Alla, we've come a long way, lady.

* * *

><p><strong>Spiderweb<strong>

* * *

><p>The chase was on.<p>

I darted from behind a grand oak tree, zipped across the garden courtyard, and waited behind a stone statue of a pot-bellied angel with chipped wings.

It was grey out. The color of the sky reflected Monday's mood – unpredictable. I, for one, went unaffected by the pallid afternoon, being thoroughly tangled up in my scheme.

Professor Swan exited the science building with a clipped gait. I waited five erratic heartbeats before following her at a respectable distance.

Angela had emailed me the professor's articles from recent science journals as well as her professional biography. For someone who traveled the world discovering new spiders, there was barely anything of value. It told me her educational background and listed her accomplishments, dry with no substance, signifying nothing.

Not good enough.

If I managed to get near her, I needed to arm myself with information so I spent the weekend at the library researching everything and anything relating to her work, even branching out into the literature aisles and the children's section, maxing the check-out limit on my card. I even scored a cartoon.

During the afternoons, I walked through the park looking for a patch of web, my trusty spider book in hand. I found them everywhere – sparkling in bushes, clustered on the corner of a porch, and under benches. I looked but dared not touch. I wasn't fascinated to the point of courting danger although, looking back on it, some park-dwellers probably thought I was in need of a straight-jacket for all the kneeling and bending I did in the name of science. They kept their distance.

I read. I wrote. I gleefully toyed with fantastic words that somersaulted off my tongue – pedipalps, exoskeletons, spinnerets. I had discovered a new language and for the life of me, I didn't know how I had lived without it.

Once I began watching for spiders, I hadn't the time for much else.

On Sunday, Emmett entered our apartment as I sat in darkness with the shades drawn.

"Gentleman Ed? Are you dead?"

"No," I said, sounding as if I had been dismembered. My voice floated from a corner. "Just watching a cartoon."

He flipped on the light and I winced. "You look like a tornado hit you."

I hadn't shaved or showered since I'd seen her and my appetite, wrangled up by gripping nerves, had abandoned me. I was wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, transfixed on the movie.

"Oh. I've seen this." Emmett settled on the couch, but a sniff in my direction propelled him forward. He switched to the love seat. "I liked when Fern fed him from a bottle. It was cool. I wanted a piglet after I saw that."

"They're cute."

"Now _she_ is hot."

"She's a little girl, Em."

"I meant Charlotte."

I sighed. "Yeah, she is." On the screen, a dulcet-voiced Charlotte hung by a silk thread in front of a smitten pig – Wilbur.

_Wilbur: I think you're beautiful. _

_Charlotte: Well, I am pretty. Nearly all spiders are good-looking. I'm not as flashy as some, but I'll do._

"I want one just like her," said Emmett.

_You can't have her. Not her. _

My mind had its own running commentary, and mercifully, a voiceless one, because nothing my alter ego was saying made sense in the logical world. In truth, I wouldn't have minded being locked up, provided the professor was thrown into the padded cell with me.

We watched the movie in silence. When it was over, Emmett spoke as a parent would to a touchy teenager. "Have you figured out what your plan is?"

That's when I told him my intentions, as crude as they were.

"So you're going to _stalk_ your snowflake?"

I scoffed at the term. "That's a strong word, Em." I glanced at the screen. Charlotte was busily creating the final web, her magnum opus, in order to save Wilbur from becoming a breakfast treat. It read, "Humble".

I sighed. "It's not stalking if she doesn't know she wants me to find her, is it?"

Emmett stood and put a hand to my forehead. He withdrew it and uttered to himself while looking at me. "Too bad. It would have made more sense if you _were_ dying."

He shrugged, then headed to the kitchen where he made himself a sandwich.

* * *

><p>The professor walked ahead of me, spinning into view behind a formation of oak trees in her standard uniform of black and white. She was leaving campus.<p>

This was my best chance; I pounced on it.

My plan was beautiful in its simplicity: I would seek her out at home, away from the University, and approach her on her own ground. Angela would not go so far as to supply the professor's address, and that was fine. I didn't push; I respected her decision to protect the professor…from me.

I hadn't exclusively wasted my time researching over the weekend.

I spent an unholy number of hours wriggling under the sheets like a thirteen-year-old boy with his first porno mag, dirtying up every image of us together as if all my blood rushed to the wrong head. I couldn't ignore the feral side of me that had lived dormant, the guy who definitely, unapologetically wished for a view under her skirt, but I had to keep my libido caged a while longer, no matter how desperately the bars rattled when I imagined her scent. After all, it wasn't sex I was after.

Yet.

I halted at the edge of campus as she sprinted across the street to the parking garage. It was my first stroke of luck, I was parked across from it.

I sat in my car facing the avenue - the perfect view. The window steamed over and I wiped a corner with my sleeve. It had been muggy all day with a constant patter of drizzle sweeping through town. Thunder threatened.

I flipped on the de-fogger and the radio and waited.

Headlights appeared out of the garage, followed by a clanging truck. It was a most incongruous sight – Professor Swan, head high and hair pulled in a bun, commanded the wheel of a scrap of metal that looked to be two right-hand turns from falling apart.

I started the car and pulled out of the lot. Maybe it was the deceptive curtain of rain but I felt invisible and, in a strange way, invincible and most definitely reckless for following her wherever she led me.

I traveled from behind by two cars. Her truck looked familiar to me, and I racked my brain trying to recall it when the memory of a dog's floppy head hanging out the passenger window brought it all back home. I remembered exactly where and when she had almost run me over.

I slammed my palm on the dashboard. "I'll be damned, if that's not a sign."

I had won the Karma lottery; the woman who almost killed me was the one whom I wanted. The irony was not wasted on me.

It didn't even matter to me that she sped off that day. I could only fantasize how different our meeting would have been had she stopped and checked on me.

_"Are you okay?" she would have said, breathless from her jog over. _

_"Not even a scratch," I would respond, realizing the woman was my soul mate. _

_"I think we need to get you to a hospital."_

_She would have thrown my arm over her shoulder like I was a soldier and she was my nurse. "The hospital's too far," she would say, distressed. "I think I better take you home with me."_

_I would have been most agreeable to her kindness and generosity. "Yes, that would be best."_

_"What's your name?"_

_"Edward." _

_She would melt._

_"I'm Bella."_

_I would smile, knowing I'd found my heart, and she would return it just the same._

"You have the light, idiot!"

A blare of honks pulled me out of my reverie. The professor had turned off on Airport Road. We were headed out of the county and traffic. The rain let up and I turned off my wipers, pursuing her behind a horse trailer on a long stretch of road bisecting a pine forest. We drove south, where only farmland and hick towns of 'Population : Fifty' existed, beyond that was the Gulf.

I knew this area. We were in the vicinity of Aro's gym and the road where she almost knocked me into a ditch.

We took a hard left at a "T" in the road. The horse trailer traveled one way, and the professor another. I slowed down until her car turned onto a driveway at the bottom of a hill. When I reached it, I pulled over on the shoulder. I had found her home.

We were in the middle of nowhere and the professor's house was at the top of the hill past a point I could not see. I stepped out to collect my thoughts.

I paced. How the hell was I getting in? What did I have to say?

I was nobody to her. She'd laugh in my face.

A crack of thunder.

I had two options: stick with Angela's plan, or go with my gut. If I went with Plan A, the safest route, I could think up ways to flatter her with my growing knowledge of the Latrodectus or charm her with jokes to make her laugh and touch my arm, but to wait another two weeks felt like self-imposed torture. I wasn't a masochist; I craved her too much. I was compelled to stay. Not to mention, if I didn't see her soon I was afraid I'd starve to death. It was the most wrecking feeling: I carried a deep hunger with no appetite to serve it.

_Why did no one tell me love was so physically painful?_

I gathered my courage.

I started bouncing. This was just like writing a new piece.

I punched the air. It was like the first mile of a long run.

I hopped from side to side. It was like stepping into the ring to take a beating.

I huffed into the mist. I was a laserbeam, focused, strong, in charge.

My whole being got into the act, shadowboxing, collecting steam. I had to do this now, there was no such thing as 'the right time'.

I had a solid plan. I knew exactly what I needed to do to gain a foothold into her world, and it was as close to the truth as I could get without scaring her off.

I quit stalling and went up her drive.

* * *

><p>A multi-story farmhouse with peeling yellow paint met me at the top. The lights were off inside but her truck was parked haphazardly in her driveway, as if she had been impatient to get out of it.<p>

I scratched my head. I doubted there was another house for miles. It was morbidly isolated, her home, tucked at the edge of a dense forest. I smelled the tang of a swamp nearby.

Perhaps she had gone for a walk, I told myself without conviction. It was drizzling so softly that it was eerily silent. I couldn't imagine anyone taking a stroll in the dampness.

A footpath, wild with overgrowth, led to the back of her home, which had deceived me from the front. It was expansive for one person, in all likelihood a family had once lived here and maybe it was the encroaching darkness but I shivered, considering the ghosts that floated through the old house.

I picked my way through tall grass as the trail disappeared into the backyard. An orange glow came from a window facing a garden. It was the kitchen.

Dishware clanged then stopped. "Who's there?"

I braced myself.

A shadow moved behind the screen door, darkened by a tin awning.

"It's me, Edward Cullen, Professor."

_Your stalker._

"What do you want?"

_Marry me, Bella._

I willed away my errant thoughts; I had to get a grip. This scenario was not a part of my overactive imagination, it was real. I shook my head. The ephemeral quality of our introduction slowed me down as if in a fog, one faulty step and my whole world would dissolve, rendering me lonely and achy without her.

I had to tread lightly.

"I'm sorry to intrude but I saw you at Friday's lecture – "

"And?"

She hadn't told me to leave. I let out a breath. "And I still had a few questions," I said, stepping forward gingerly, closing the distance that estranged us.

"What sort of questions?" she spoke as if she were pacing.

I halted my progress. "More about your work on the Black Widow."

"We can discuss it on campus," she said impatiently. "See me during office hours."

"You don't have office hours, I checked."

I heard noises break out in the kitchen and something slide across the floor like a sack of potatoes. A pathetic yelp came from inside.

"Can you be any more useless, _dog_?"

"Excuse me?"

"Look, you, I don't see students in my home. I'm in the middle of something and if you don't leave now, I'll have to sic my guard dog on you."

It seemed her guard dog was lying down on the job because it kept quiet while she cursed at it and from the sounds of it, _growled _at it. My love, I suspected, was certifiable. It made me happy as that would make the two of us.

"I'm sorry for barging in like this but I wanted to speak with you – "

"You followed me here."

The backyard light flickered on.

"I had no choice."

I took a few more steps and that was when I heard it, the cocking of a shotgun. "Get off my property." Lightning ripped the sky to my left. It started to rain. Heavily. The heavens let loose.

"Look, I'm not a danger to you," I said, futilely covering my head with my arms. I was getting drenched by the second. "The least you can do is hear me out."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"I'm the guy you almost killed last year!" I yelled under the downpour.

"What?"

"I'm sure if you took a moment you'd recognize me as the guy you almost ran over last November. Your truck almost hit the ditch but you and your _guard_ dog sped off."

"Really?"

"Would I lie? You have a shotgun pointed at me!"

The storm rumbled and her dog started to howl as if he were singing a song into it, not pathetic or scared, almost…happy.

Through the pandemonium, I heard the words rush out of her mouth in disbelief: "Shit. That was you?"

* * *

><p>She had ordered me to go around front and I splashed in puddles, soaked by the time I rounded the corner. I bounded up her porch steps.<p>

She opened the door and I gave up a silent thank you, for her hands were empty of murderous weapons. "You look like a drowned rat."

She stepped back and threw a towel on the floor in the entryway like it was a welcome mat. Water dripped off me and I resisted shaking my head like an animal.

"I think this calls for more towels, you're wet all over. I tried to kill you, you say?" She appraised me from head to foot. "I'm sure it wasn't on purpose."

"I…I…" could not get a sentence past my chattering teeth. I tried to speak but could only stutter.

"Hold that thought. I need to get you out of those clothes. Stay right there."

I closed my eyes, shivering in place, and listened to the sounds she made from the second story. A staircase to my left wound up the house and I heard her run up, rapidly shutting doors I imagined were closets, and in no time she was before me again. "Here. Take these."

I opened my eyes and her expression softened. "Here's a towel and some clothes. I'm sorry but this is all I have. I don't keep anything in 'student'."

I mouthed my thanks and she pointed to a hallway beyond her living room. "First door on the left."

In the bathroom, I peeled off my cold clothes. January had come roaring in with piercing freezing rain, the stuff that would have been snow in Buffalo. I hated tropical winters, so humid it seeped into my bones. I missed the snow.

I scrubbed dry vigorously and considered my options. On the floor in a soggy pile was everything I had worn on my back.

On the toilet, folded neatly, was the bundle the professor gave me.

A pair of FSU basketball shorts in a women's large fit snug enough to cup my balls precariously, but it was the closest I had to dry underwear. The other item was a golden robe, soft as butter, with intricate patterns meant for someone far more delicate than me. It didn't reach my thighs.

I had mutated into my worst nightmare. "I'm a hooker at a massage parlor," said the guy in the mirror who looked about as dejected as I felt.

There, on the other side of reason was I, hair a plastered mess and wearing a ladies' dressing robe only feet away from a woman who probably thought I was a loser.

A cross-dressing loser.

"Okay. Here's what you're gonna do." I gave myself a pep talk, reasoning that only by talking to my reflection could I truly convince him to go through with it. "If you're lucky, she'll see past the 'Happy Ending' thing you have going on and she'll see you're a good guy. You go out there, state your case, make it brief, give her time to think about it, and go home, jack off, happy, happy."

I dusted my hands of the matter, and mustered up all the bravado I possessed. Adjusting my junk and twisting the sash into a sure knot, I opened the door.

I stumbled over a soft lump on the floor. "Woof."

Exactly like a human pantomiming a dog came its warning. Her shaggy mutt was positioned beside the door as if he were my jailer. He rested on all fours, barely acknowledging me. I petted him. "You're a real bulldog, aren't you?"

"Bacon!"

The professor's call came from the kitchen and I followed its light, as the rest of her house was shrouded in gloom.

"Was Bacon over there?" A bloody bone dangled from her fingertips.

"I'm sorry?"

"My dog, did you happen to see him?"

"I almost tripped over him coming out of the bathroom."

"Of course. Why do I bother with him? He's probably fallen asleep on his feet again, lazy bastard." She threw the bone in a bag and set it aside on the countertop. Beside it, a pan was sizzling with vegetables.

My stomach growled.

"Mister…er…"

"Cullen. But, please, call me Edward."

"'Mr. Cullen' works just fine." I nodded as if I was agreeable when clearly I had no say in the matter. "Would you like to stay for dinner? I suppose I owe you an apology of sorts."

"I didn't really come for…I don't want to impose."

"Oh, you're already imposing," she said, tasting off a spoon. "You might as well see it through, yes?"

"Oh. Sure. Yes. I'll stay, thank you."

She set the utensil down. I became mortified when she took in my wardrobe. Her body tensed as if containing her laughter but failing. It was as if the robe had shrunk even further in her presence, exposing me all the more. This was the death of my dignity. I squared my shoulders and stood straight, restraining all instincts to cover my chest.

"Don't feel self-conscious, Mr. Cullen. You should feel privileged you're wearing the golden silk of Madagascar."

"Madagascar?"

"Yes. There are only two of these in existence." She came forward and tugged the end of the sash from my grip, rubbing the smooth fabric between slim fingers. "This robe took four years to weave with the labor of seventy people and thousands of golden orb spiders. It is made entirely from spider silk."

"Where is the other robe?"

"Traveling with some museum show." She shrugged. "I don't know, around."

Knowing I was wearing a priceless treasure didn't alleviate my anxiety at all. She treated it as if it were taken off the rack at Goodwill. She released the sash and smiled, turning back to the stove.

"Thank you for the robe, it's…comfortable. It was nice of them to give it to you, the weavers."

"I didn't say it was _given _to me." She waved a hand dismissively. "So, about me running you over," she said, switching gears so quickly my head spun.

"Don't you remember?" I asked.

"Oh, I do. I recall a young man jogging on the road."

"Running," I corrected. "I was working out."

"Oh, my apologies. Right. _Working out_. I admit, I'd never seen anyone run there but for a kamikaze fox or two. I wasn't expecting you, you surprised me."

"Is that why you swerved?"

"No, actually. It was more than that." She stirred the contents in a skillet and the aromas of a home cooked meal assaulted me to the point of euphoria. "I had a specimen in the cab and Bacon accidentally tipped him over." She turned around and smiled. "I was driving a truck with a Widow on the loose and a dog that's terrified of them. I lost control of the situation."

She pulled out a chair from under a small kitchen table. "Please, sit. The least I can do is feed you since I did almost kill you. I'm sorry for that, by the way."

I sat in the offered chair, clutching my robe at the chest like a put-out diva. "That's okay," I said. "No harm done."

"Good. Now give me a second, I'm going to put your clothes in the dryer."

She left me to her errand and I looked around her kitchen. It held a country-style warmth that looked like many a good pie came out of it. The cabinets had frosted panes and behind them, fully stocked shelves. Even more dry goods peeked from a corner pantry at the other end. It was homey and obviously hadn't seen a renovation in half a century, if that.

"What were you doing running there anyway? Such a lonely stretch." She came in speaking as if we hadn't finished our discussion. Her dog plopped along behind her. He ambled toward the pantry and plunked down next to his food bowl.

"I work nearby. Aro's gym."

"That's a boxing gym, isn't it?"

"Yes. I work for the Volutri brothers."

"Are you a boxer? I thought you said you were a student."

"I'm both. I happen to box, too."

"Oh," she said, grabbing a kettle off the stove. "A man of many talents. This should warm you up."

She put a mug of tea in front of me and leaned against the counter, picking up a wine glass for herself. She swirled it.

"Is that why you're here then, to seek an apology?"

"Not just that, no."

"Then why go through all the trouble?"

I put down the tea. "I didn't come for an apology, frankly I didn't know it was you until I saw the truck. I was at your lecture last week."

"Oh, yes, you did say that when I caught you outside."

"It resonated with me," I replied, refusing to acknowledge my lack of manners and the shotgun that meant to teach me of them.

"I'm glad you liked the lecture. It was a good crowd."

"I stayed for the question and answer session."

"I see."

"I asked you about ecosystems in urban environments and…"

"New Orleans," she finished. She put her wine glass down carefully. "You're just chock full of coincidences, aren't you Mr. Cullen. You seem to have intimate knowledge of my whereabouts."

"I really don't."

"Then how did you know I was in Jackson Square last spring? That's what you were driving at when you purported to ask me a question and disguise it as genuine interest. Mr. Cullen, if you're here to sabotage my work…"

"That's not the case. I grant you this all looks like a crazy, twisted coincidence but I doubt I would have recognized you as the same person in New Orleans if it wasn't for your wardrobe."

She looked down at her outfit – white blouse untucked from a long black skirt. She looked at home, barefoot – perfect white feet, pretty, with toes painted as red as a fire engine. I adjusted in my seat. My tea had gone cold but that was okay, my internal temperature was flushed hot.

"You saw me there in the park."

"Yes. I didn't mean to call you out on it but it's not something I could forget. You stood out to me. I don't want you to suspect me of selfish intentions." _I was going to hell. _"But once I realized I had seen you before, I had to speak with you. Your lecture," I kept on, leaning forward, "it drew something out of me. I'm not here to sabotage anything or question your methods." I put my hands up in surrender. "You don't have to tell me why you were in the park that night but I gathered it has to do with your research but that's speculation and I can't say I'm not curious even if I have been asking myself the question for as long…"

She laughed. "Okay, I get it. If you were into academic espionage you'd be betrayed by your rambling alone. Let's set the record straight. I was there because I had released a male widow from our lab in Tulane."

"And that's a problem?"

"A huge no-no. Once trapped, the spider is theirs. You work for a University and suddenly all your creative methods go to hell and high water. They want you to do things their way. Something as dumb as taking spiders out of inventory would've reinforced my reputation and, at the time, it was the last thing I needed. I don't know if you know but I tend to get attached to the specimens." She narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure you've heard."

The silence was thick.

"It's okay, I'm well aware of my own myth." She shrugged. "You understand why I can't just come out and trust you, Mr. Cullen. Surely, you've heard, too. You were there surrounded by the rest of your peers." She smiled mockingly, no bitterness in her tone. "Don't you know? I eat men for dinner."

"That's just ignorance."

"Oh, but it's funny."

Her flippancy grated on me. "Doesn't it bother you? That they spread those lies?"

"They're doing me a favor."

"It keeps people away from you."

"That's the point. It is how one acts when she prefers her privacy, Mr. Cullen. It's a _hint_ to stay away." She took a sip a wine. "Not many people are immune to my efforts," she finished pointedly.

Her dress, her rigid privacy, her lack of righteousness, it was as if someone had opened a window and let in a gush of wind. I was on to her and she knew it.

"I can't believe it. You do it on purpose."

"I do it to stay sane."

"It's an act."

"People see what they want to see, Mr. Cullen. I don't bother correcting them, it wastes my time. Who cares what they think? I have better things to do."

_It's crazy._

"I have a world of spiders to investigate. It leaves little room for anything else," she said, shutting the door on the subject.

I reeled from the knowledge, either the rumors didn't disturb her or she really did use it to her advantage. It was becoming increasingly clear that I knew absolutely nothing about her.

"I'm afraid all I have to offer are leftovers," she said, picking a choice scrap from the pan and throwing it to Bacon.

A bowl of stew appeared before me. I thanked her and waited for her to sit. She filled her glass with more wine and then opened the refrigerator. "I have milk, juice." She sniffed from a bottle of cranberry juice, turned up her nose, and set it aside. "And water."

She looked at me expectantly. My eyes darted to the bottle of wine and the single wineglass standing next to it.

"Juice is fine," I lied, preferring a steadying shot of whiskey instead.

She caught me eyeing her booze. "How old are you, Mr. Cullen?"

"Twenty-two in June."

"Ah." She smiled slowly, handing me a glass of apple juice. "Barely legal."

She was referring to my drinking age, but my mind ran away from me and I choked, tapping my chest and swallowing hard, willing my mind to quit throwing us in scenes where I was showing her just how legal I could be with her bent over a kitchen table.

"Everything okay?"

I nodded and managed a reassuring smile that came off as fake even to me.

We ate in relative silence. The stew was delicious, pungent and earthy, thawing me from the inside out. She served crusty bread, which sat in a basket between us.

I couldn't concentrate. The humiliation of eating half-naked at her table, coupled with the sinking feeling that I was wholly unprepared for someone like her, put me on edge.

There were noises everywhere. Bacon gnawed on a bone. Our silverware scraped and dinged. Rain pelted the roof. I swallowed, and wondered if she heard that, too.

I snuck a peek over my spoon as she reached for a slice of bread. She ate while ignoring my presence, which is why I was startled when she spoke after a long silence. "You're a senior, then."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you from here, Mr. Cullen? From the South?"

I wiped my mouth. "No. I'm from New York."

"The City, or the rest of it?"

"Buffalo area."

She gave me a raised brow and extended her arm. I looked down at my bowl, surprised to find it empty. I passed it to her.

"Most boys don't say 'ma'am' anymore. They think it embarrasses women, makes them testy about their age."

"I disagree. It's a sign of respect, especially around a lady."

"How very gentlemanly of you."

I couldn't tell if she was mocking me.

"What do you think of the term?" I wished my question hadn't come out like a challenge.

"I agree with you. It's an outdated custom but it teaches one to respect she who is more experienced than he." She stood up with our dishes, a teasing smile on her lips. "I certainly approve of it."

I was glad my question did not displease her. "Can I help you with the dishes?"

"I don't allow a guest to do his own dishes, that's barbaric." She winked. "Besides, now that we've determined that you are welcome here, you should let me know why. I have a suspicion we're not done with the purpose of your visit."

"That's correct." I bit the bullet. "I'm here because I would like to make a proposal."

"Alright. What's on your mind?"

It was now or never. "I have to settle on a thesis for my English assignment, and I'd like to do it on you."

"Is that so?"

She sat down in front of me. Somewhere in the large house I heard the tumble of my clothes in the dryer, every minute closed in on me and I feared the timer.

"You mean, my research on Leah."

"No, actually, you. Yes, Leah would be a part of the equation but I'd like to focus on your story."

"What sort of assignment is it?"

"Non-fiction. I'm an essayist. I study under Marcus Volturi, he runs the Creative Writing program."

"I can't say I was expecting that, Mr. Cullen. Why would anyone want to write about me?"

"I want to write about your activism and your work. I've only found meager information."

"You've looked me up."

"I did my research, yes. You've broken a lot of ground in your field but there's no record on how you've managed to make such discoveries."

"Are you looking for gossip?"

I laughed. "Hardly. I told you, I don't want to write a defamatory expose on you or anything near as sinister. I meant what I said earlier, your lecture moved me. I had never imagined the natural world in such beauty and color. I was fascinated by your remarks on Leah, of course. It made me curious."

She poured the last dregs from the wine bottle and leaned back, crossing her legs at the ankle. "How so?" I averted my eyes from the sliver of pale flesh.

"Well, was curious if you meant it."

"Meant what?"

"Meant what you said at the lecture about proving the idea of 'love at first sight'. Is that what you're proving?"

"I can't say for sure." She said, taking a sip. "It makes for a great hook, though, don't you think?"

"So you don't believe it can be true?"

She set her wine down. "I don't believe anything that hasn't been proven. I don't mean to theorize on a romantic ideal – that's the stuff of poetry – but it does grab people's attention and it comes in handy when you're competing for a grant. People are happy to support causes cloaked in romance."

"What is wrong with that? It inspires people if they see the world wrapped in beauty."

"Mr. Cullen, there's nothing wrong with that at all, but I don't deal in imagination solely. To prove anything, I need facts, samples, time, and most of all, money."

"So what are you trying to prove?"

"Nothing yet. I don't have enough data. I am starting at _why_ and _how._ It must be physically impossible for Leah to continue this way. All beings consummate, whether for procreation or pleasure or both, but I'm concerned with what she means on a grand scale."

My face was a loaded question.

She answered me. "I can only infer that Leah's _choice_, for lack of a better word, hurts the ecosystem."

"You don't believe that a person…I mean spider would do that? Simply wait for that connection?"

"We're the only animals selfish enough for that choice. The Black Widow is a product of a natural world which has been evolving longer than we have. There is no evidence to suggest she is acting for selfish reasons. She is as beholden to her environment as it is to her. One of them is failing the other."

"Yet, there's no evidence that her existence is a failure of anything. Perhaps it's a condition of a new evolutionary development."

She laughed, slackening the tension from our rapport. "Yes. That's right, spoken like a true scientist who desperately wants funding for her research. The truth is that Leah has opened up a can of worms, drowning us in a sea of questions. I pick what's important, right now."

"Which is?"

"At the moment, her frightful image."

I moved forward in my seat, determined. "And that's exactly why I want you for my paper. You're their best advocate, their one voice."

"All this for a class?"

"You're not talking to an amateur, Professor. I've been published. I also know the man who can get this published if he thinks the story has merit. Sure, I'm doing this for a grade but if you've read my work, you'll understand that I write only what interests me. I'm good at it."

"You're not modest."

"'To write with humility is to bury the truth.' I didn't make that up, my mentor did, but suffice it to say, I want to give your truth a voice. I want you to help me with my grade and in turn, you get a platform. We'd both have final say on the ending."

"You really believe this will work, don't you?"

"I do. Why, you're the next Dian Fossey."

"Please, stop. Now you're reaching."

"Not at all. She managed to convince housewives that gorillas would no more hurt them than scale the Empire State building. She had a profound impact on their image. I think you can do the same thing.

"The truth is, Professor, people don't want to hear about data. They want a personal story. They want to root for the underdog and feel good about themselves before they go to bed at night. They want to connect even if it's with a creature as scary as the spider, but they can't do it alone. Someone has to lead the way.

"You're the bridge, the conduit."

"Conduit," she repeated. She searched my face for signs of trouble. I sat immobile, watching her pace inside that curious head of hers.

"I never suspected someone like you would take an interest in my line of work."

"Someone like me?"

"Surely you have better things to do than to interview me. Don't you party with your frat brothers, hang out with your friends, go to concerts and all that?"

"With all due respect, you're the last person I expect to judge a book by its cover. I understand I came to you empty-handed but if you give me a chance, I can prove to you I'm not just some jock looking for an easy grade."

I couldn't unlock the tension from my jaw. I wanted to shake reason into her.

"I'm sorry if I offended you," she said carefully. "I suppose that wasn't fair of me."

"It's alright," I said, meaning it. "What do you say? I promise, you have nothing to lose."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Cullen." Did she question everyone's motives like she did mine? I didn't want to take offense, but it started to feel like this shit was personal.

Finally, when I couldn't take it any longer, when I was working up a Hail Mary game plan, she spoke. "Do you have a portfolio?"

A smile broke out on my face. Her eyes sparkled; a contained excitement seemed to brew behind them.

"Yes, of course, but not with me." She nodded as if she could be patient.

I almost hooted and hollered in celebration.

"Get me the portfolio by eight in the morning. I will call you to discuss. Do you know where my office is?"

I looked at her like she was crazy. Had I not admitted only moments before that I stalked her in the name of research? She put two and two together and rolled her eyes. "But, of course you do."

"Thank you, Professor. Thank you for hearing me out."

She clucked her tongue and laughed lightly. "Your tenacity would not have had it any other way."

We heard a buzzer. "That's the dryer," she said as if declaring my time was up. She stood up and paused at the doorway, her earlier suspicion replaced with bemusement.

She shook her head. "You are a brazen young man, Mr. Cullen. Indeed, you sit here dressed in my clothes and make a case for the spider like a true champion. I find it difficult to say no to someone with so much…spunk."

With those parting words, she left to collect my clothes.

I put my head in my hands and groaned. Her dog, Bacon, trotted up to me and made his presence known for the first time since we sat down. He nudged my hands with his cold nose.

"Fuck," I whispered, exhausted, and talking to him like a comrade thrown into the same bunker as me. "She's not making this easy. How do you do it?" I scratched behind his ears.

He whimpered contentedly, tongue out as if grateful for the attention.

"Or maybe you're just along for the ride, eh, buddy?"

I didn't know what I had gotten myself into but I had no room for failure. Maybe I had to do like Bacon and let her take charge, set myself on neutral and coast through this business of courtship-slash-research-slash-writing before the right time presented itself.

Maybe I had to let her drive us into whatever came next.

"Woof." I said softly, experimenting.

"Woof." He responded as if sharing my woe.

Bastard.

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><p>WriteOnTime and faireyfan, as always, make this a joy to write. They're all things awesome.<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended

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><p><strong>Exoskeleton<strong>

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><p>I followed the progress of a ladybug as he inched along the curve of Bella's chin and past her delicate cheek. He halted at the edge of her dark brow, scoping out the best exit strategy, maneuvering right then left, until he took flight in a flurry of frantic wings and landed on the wood-paneled wall.<p>

I lifted my sunglasses and leaned in to study the next photo. A teenage Bella smiled like a brat, holding a fishing pole over the water while a small fish dangled on the hook. Had I been the photographer, the knock-kneed girl and her prize would have made me grin.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cullen. I'll be with you in a moment."

I flipped my sunglasses down over my eyes and turned; the professor held a hand over the receiver.

"Take your time."

Her smile was the grown-up imitation to the girl in the picture but much more polite. "Thanks," she said, and swiveled away to continue her call. I had waited this long, so what were a few more minutes squeezed into her office?

I took it all in behind the bluish tint of my shades. It wasn't what I expected.

No certificates or accolades, no cased trophies or scientific charts adorned her office. Instead, I was treated to a mosaic of personal photos, all revealing a little piece of her – squinting in pigtails between a man and woman whose genes she sprouted from in equal measure, waving excitedly from the back seat of a VW bus, napping on the shoulder of a cop. Fishing.

There were more, many more frames of a younger Bella.

If I were approached to pen her biography based on the photos, I would have assumed she did not live past the age of a reedy teenager. There was no indication that the precocious face would grow into the polished woman before me, the one with the ripened lips, quicker to question than to laugh, and dressed for hiding.

I was getting ahead of myself. I stopped making up tales I knew nothing about and stepped aside.

Her office wasn't airy but I could see how it suited her, tucked into the recesses of the old wing, cozy as her kitchen. Two filing cabinets were stacked in a corner by the door, allowing room for a hulking bookshelf crammed with trade journals and books. The one aesthetic touch was a small cactus studded with pink flowers on her desk.

I sat opposite as she finished her call.

"That's great news. Yes. I'm going there today. No, you don't have to. I'll manage. Just take care of the boys for me." She paused for a length of time during which I wondered if I was barking up the wrong tree. _What __boys?_ "Don't let Embry play with the others. I know you know." She sighed. "I don't worry."

She swiveled her chair, facing my direction, but she did not meet my gaze. She fiddled with the phone cord. "You're doing a great job, you know that. Okay, okay, I'll stop. I'll let you go, I have a student here. In my office where else?" Her eyes flittered my way. "Now feed the boys for me. And don't forget Jake, he's been moping…Hello?"

"I'll be damned." She stared at the phone in her hand like it had committed a crime. "She hung up on me."

"Important call?"

"My assistant. Very reliable and, as I'm discovering…assertive," she muttered like she couldn't believe it. "I left some important specimens in her charge," she explained. "I worry."

"Your boys."

"Yes, male(s) widows for Leah. Angela monitors them for me. She's a bright girl."

I hadn't filled in Angela about my impromptu plan. I didn't want to come clean until I was certain Professor Swan would accept my proposal. In the meantime, Ben's girlfriend was working under the assumption I was still her date for the department's social mixer, during which I was to make my introduction to her boss.

I was nothing if not flexible when it came to planning.

I decided it was best to change the subject before my friend became accidentally tangled up in my scheme. I led with a question that had been plaguing me since I walked into her office. "Planning on staying for a while?" I motioned to the overstuffed shelves.

"The grant deadlines have been pushed back. Aren't you lucky, Mr. Cullen, I'm stuck here for the remainder of the year, through the summer." She smiled wryly. "I made myself at home."

"That's great news. I'm sure that will make a lot of people happy." My response was casual but I was celebrating like the Fourth of July on the inside.

The professor, on the other hand, remained unconvinced. "Really, like who? I think you're the only one with any interest in me here and that's because you're writing a paper. I'm afraid everyone else considers me a pariah, taking up room while I compete for their money."

"That's petty."

"That's politics. You get used to it." She smiled, pleasantly. The tone in her office was markedly different than our encounter in her kitchen. I wondered what prompted the shift. Was it was the office setting or was it something else that permitted her to be less formal with me? Either way, I liked it.

"May I ask you something?" she asked.

"Of course."

"This might come off as forward but it's been on the tip of my tongue since you walked in here. Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors? Are you a vampire now?"

I touched my shades self-consciously. "Boxing accident. I don't think you'd appreciate…I mean, it's not pretty."

"You mean you don't want to offend me?"

"Well, no."

"It's fine. Show me, I'm sure I've seen worse. Go on. Take off your glasses."

I did as she asked, bracing myself, and her expression morphed from one of pleasantness to horror. "That's barbaric."

"It's not _that_ bad."

The last time I checked, the bruise on my left eye had yellowed – at least the swelling was gone.

"It was an accident. Just a tap."

"A tap? Who tapped you? The Jolly Green Giant?"

I grinned. "His name is Felix. I'm his training partner, and to make a long story short: he was working the heavy bag. I was clutching it. My face got in the way."

"Of his fist?"

"That's about right."

"You're so casual about it. Doesn't it hurt?"

"Only if I smile too wide."

"I can't stand pain, even the sight of blood makes me queasy."

Her reaction wasn't uncommon and, hell, I liked that she was concerned about me. Was it wrong that I wanted her to kiss it and make it better? How could I explain that she was the indirect cause of it?

For the first time as a fighter, I didn't have my head in the game. I had not seen nor heard from her in three days. A silent phone and a heavy yearning to see her had distracted me and, adding to my misery, I kept fantasizing of her in nothing more than the Madagascar robe at the worst times like, say, facing a two-hundred-and fifty-pound fighter.

Three days.

Accidents were bound to happen.

"Why do you do it?" she asked, genuinely curious. "What's the appeal?"

Boxing was a real private subject for me, the hardest part of my life to articulate. It was the million-dollar question but all I could afford was a two-cent answer.

"It's fun."

She frowned. "Are you lying to me?"

"It helps to work off certain…frustrations."

"Parents?"

"Something like that."

"Girl problems?"

"I wouldn't say _problems_."

"Hmm. No, I can't imagine you'd have worries there." Before I could retort, she reached into her bag, ending the chitchat. "Alright, if you don't want to talk about it, then let's get down to business."

She pulled out my portfolio and it landed on her desk with a definite _thunk_. "I think we should talk about your project."

There it was, all the prose I had written since I worked under Marcus – essays, fiction, and a fling with poetry. The bound notebook, three fingers thick, sat between us like the elephant in the room. I had never craved approval more than I did at that moment. It was soul-rattling. Every bit of me was in there, the good, bad, and ugly, and all I asked for was that she be pleased by it.

"Relax, Mr. Cullen, you're going to break my chair with your bouncing leg syndrome."

I ceased my fidgeting.

She cleared her throat. Was she nervous or was I projecting? "You have nothing to worry about. The truth is, I very much like your body of work. As a matter of fact, I'm the one who should apologize. I underestimated you."

Did I hear right?

"You liked it?"

"Of course, how could I not? I read it all. You picked some very interesting subjects. Carnies?"

She read _all_ of it. I breathed a sigh of relief. "That was my latest one."

"Did you really follow the circus and shovel shit for two weeks?" She laughed.

"Yes, but let the record show I also learned to trapeze with Bruno the Beau. Granted, he was a bit _eager_ with the hands-on education, but he's one of the best. The piece was my attempt at satire."

"The part about the baby giraffe was very touching," she added kindly. "I also liked your stories about the Appalachian Trail, made me want to pack my tent again. Oh, and did you really pick crops with migrant workers?"

"I did that the summer of my sophomore year. It was the hardest thing I had to do."

"I bet. That's backbreaking work."

"You misunderstand; not the labor, but knowing I could go to a warm bed at night while the rest of the workers lived in shacks."

"You exposed real tragedy without sounding like a journalist. All your stories have a personal touch, as if it's your own life at stake. You gave me a lot to think about since I last saw you. I found every story filled with humor but also an unapologetic honesty. I admire that.

"You left me wanting more. That's a good talent. I'm usually so wrapped up in my work that I don't think of much else , and here, you broke through. Bravo."

I was flushed from her generous praise, but what's more, it was her insight and interpretation of my work that left me breathless. It was more than I could have hoped for and I knew I had crossed a major hurdle.

"Look, I'm going to be blunt. I called your mentor."

"Marcus?"

I wasn't expecting that. I didn't know whether to be flattered or nervous so I settled for cautiously optimistic. "He doesn't know about you," I admitted.

"Oh, he does now. Once I explained who I was and told him about your visit to my home, he had some very interesting things to say."

I refrained from shoving my head in my hands in premature shame. What words of fermented wisdom did he have to dispel? "What did he say?"

"He said that if I really cared about the plight of the Latrodectus then I should grant you access, because if anyone is 'batshit crazy' enough to get close to a venomous black spider with the power to instill paralyzing fear in the toughest of men, it would be you."

"That was a long quote. Did he really say all that?"

"In much more colorful language. I paraphrased. He sounded a bit _off _for a weekday afternoon."

"Sounds like Marcus. He's got his vices but there's no one better than him."

She waved it off. "Eccentricities don't bother me. Who am I to judge? But he also said something else. He said when it comes to your powers of observation, they rival that of a mind reader."

"It doesn't take telepathic skill to read a person, just a lot of time and patience."

She nodded. "Like a scientist. I like that."

"Professor, I don't want to be pushy here but I'd really like to know. You've read my portfolio and you've confirmed that my purpose is noble. Will you allow me to write about you?"

She sank in her chair and took a fortifying breath. "What does it entail?"

"I shadow you." I rushed to explain. "You let me into your lab, lectures, field work, wherever your work takes you. I'll handle it from there."

"It's not that I don't trust you. I can see that you're an earnest person and you have the kind of curiosity that fits my line of work. It's just…Mr. Cullen, I'm not used to having _company_."

That was code for friends. The woman had no friends; colleagues, but not friends.

"I'll be like a ghost."

"A lot of what I do is tedious. I can't promise you it will be fun."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"I can come off as intense. I'm straightforward and I don't lie."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"I won't censor myself."

"I wouldn't ask that of you. Professor, nothing you can say will change my mind. I want to learn. You teach me everything you know about spiders, and together we'll show the world there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about that. I haven't had a student one-on-one before and I do like to talk about spiders."

Of course you do, you practically levitate when you say the word.

"And you'll want my story, too?"

"Nothing too personal."

She rubbed her forehead, wavering. "Oh, what am I doing? I better not regret this. Fine. If you can do for my favorite species what you've done here," she tapped my portfolio, "and give them a human touch, make them accessible, then I guess I can put up with talking about myself."

I whooped.

"That's a yes! That's a yes? I mean, you did just say yes."

"Yes," she laughed, amused by my victory antics. "But I have two conditions. One: no more stalking and following me around, I'd hate to waste a bullet on you. You are welcome to my home, so please, use the front door next time."

"I promise."

"And two: I want to know why you subject yourself to pain."

I frowned, suddenly not liking the change in course.

"Boxing is a touchy subject for you, Mr. Cullen. There's a story there that you're not telling me and if we're going to spend time together, I want to know." She crossed her arms. "So what will it be? It's tit for tat or not at all."

So she wanted to know why I found solace in physical suffering. I put my sunglasses on and smiled, belying my fear. The last thing I wanted to do was touch on my _feelings_ but for her I would endure anything. "It's a deal."

We shook on it.

Our meeting was over but she wasn't done with me yet. She stood and gathered her things. "I supposed there's no better time to start then the present. I have to go to Carrabelle. My colleague called this morning and he has something that may help us with Leah. What do you say? Are you up for a road trip?"

"Now?"

"Are you doing anything else?"

She had packed her bag and was slipping into her coat, waiting patiently for my answer.

It was barely noon. I had two papers to write, a mountain of reading to get through, and plans with Emmett later on.

"Absolutely nothing." I said.

She opened the door with a flourish. "Come on, shadow, let's go see about a spider."

* * *

><p>She kicked her truck door open from the inside when she caught me struggling with the handle. "The windows won't roll down all the way," she apologized as I strapped in. "And if you like music, I'm afraid we'll have to sing, the radio doesn't work."<p>

She turned the starter and a sonic boom startled me. I ducked, she didn't even flinch. "Muffler," she mumbled. A billow of black smoke trailed us. There was no other way to describe it except to say that her truck was a suicide machine.

I had the inexplicable urge to hand over my Volvo to keep her safe. I wondered why she drove a vehicle that belonged in a junkyard. What was its value to her?

Before I could think of a delicate way to broach the subject, she explained: "The truck was my dad's. It's a clunker, but it still runs." She knocked on the dashboard with sentimental pride. The gesture was final and I made a mental note to revisit the subject of her parents.

It was a perfect day for the hour road trip to Carrabelle. The quaint beach community was off the main artery, Highway 98, which travelled along the Gulf Coast.

I trained my gaze on the road. We were relaxed, or maybe she more so than I. There was nothing awkward about us in close quarters, thanks in part to the professor, who entertained me with her creative put-downs as she navigated University traffic.

Fortunately for me, ever since we had sealed the deal, the professor's demeanor had lightened up even further, to the extent that I caught her humming once we passed the city limits. It was a pleasing sound and it warmed me. I reasoned that she was convinced my newfound appreciation of spiders was all there was to our agreement, which could only suggest one thing: to her, I was probably harmless in all ways that were meaningful to me. That part was terribly unfortunate.

I wanted romance, oh, did I want romance. I wanted to believe we were going to the beach for sandy walks and hand-holding but that was not to be the scenario.

But, as they say, baby steps.

Instead of frolicking like lovers do, I settled for her company in the suicide machine on a brilliant blue February day.

I interrupted her musical interlude and asked what was in Carrabelle.

"We think we found another Leah."

"I thought there was only one."

She glanced at me, eyes shiny from the chilled wind, and grinned. "I know. Isn't it wonderful? So did I. My contact alerted me two weeks ago that he found a widow exhibiting the same behavior as Leah."

"This was before your lecture last week?"

"Yes, but we weren't sure yet so I couldn't make the claim. Still can't until we gather more data but in the meantime, we're meeting Guillermo at a restaurant near the widow's location to check in. He's been careful not to disrupt her habitat. It's vital that we observe her within her ecosystem and the last thing I want is to alert people there's a widow in their midst."

"Not everyone's a friend."

"No," she said sadly. "Guillermo, on the other hand, is on our side. He's an amateur arachnologist. He lives in Carrabelle, used to curate a small zoo before a hurricane claimed his animals, poor man. Now he focuses solely on spiders. He's a collector for the most part. They're not my favorite people, I don't believe in keeping arachnids for show, but a man like him has his uses."

"Is no one else working on this project?"

"Not at my level, no. There aren't many of us, Mr. Cullen. We're a small group. I'm probably the only spider expert within a five hundred mile radius. Since I can't be everywhere, I depend on a variety of sources for information. You'd be surprised."

We spoke about the vast spiderhood network. At the top sat Professor Swan and her professional colleagues with their extensive access to resources – equipment, field assistants, and funding. But the largest slice of their network, surprisingly, was made up of thousands of world citizens (her label) who interrupted perfectly good weekends with their families to seek and catalog specimens in their regions. "They do this for fun?"

"Oh, yes, but it's more than that. They do it because they're passionate about the arachnid. I knew a taxi driver in Rio once who kept a lab in his bathroom. He was married, so you can imagine. His wife moved in with her mother because she couldn't stand the thought of them. He was poor, but he managed to get a microscope, a junky thing, and somehow retrieve images acceptable enough to enter into our database."

We were at a light when she noticed the tape recorder in my hand. "Will that be on all the time?"

"Sorry, I didn't want to miss anything."

She sighed. "If you must. I guess a boxer can only retain so much, right?" she tapped her temple, teasing me.

I laughed. "I promise. I don't get knocked around a lot. I like to keep it around in case I happen to come across a good idea."

"And I'm a good idea?"

"Yes, possibly one of my best ones yet."

I changed course, unsure of what conversation we were having.

I waved the tape recorder. "If it ever bothers you."

"No, no. I'll just pretend it's not there."

I nodded and looked out the window, the reflection of my bruised-up face tried very hard to hide his satisfied smile.

"Where is Leah now? You mentioned observing the spiders in their ecosystem. Does this mean Leah is in New Orleans?"

"She's not in New Orleans. I had to remove her from her habitat where she was at risk. She's in my lab, safe. I can't stress the importance of ensuring Guillermo's specimen remains on site. I need data on weather conditions, changes in environment. So much, so much."

"I didn't know you had a dedicated lab on campus?"

"It's at my house. The University barely has room for me, much less my spiders." I hadn't noticed a room resembling a lab, but then her home was dark when I visited. "You'll have to come by and see it for yourself," she added like it was her pride and joy.

"I'd love to."

She chuckled. "You're an odd duck," said the pot calling the kettle black.

"Can you tell me where you're from? I know you received your degrees from Washington State but I was unsure if that was also your home."

"The Seattle area; small town, few people have heard of it." She shifted into first gear as we drove through a town with one stoplight. "It's a lot like this, actually." She gestured out the window. We passed a gas station advertising bait and fishing tackle. "I read a guidebook once that called it a 'sleepy getaway' or something like that. I laughed. If Forks were any more sleepy it'd be dead. There wasn't much to do when I was growing up there. I imagine it hasn't changed. Sometimes it feels like a dream, I've been gone so long."

"How long?"

"Ten years." She glanced at me, the subject of her age was fundamentally unimportant to me but I couldn't deny my prodding curiosity.

She was genuine and I didn't care how old she was as long as I got to be in the same room with her, but as a guy my primal instincts wanted intel. If I was to seduce her, I had to know what amount of experience she had over me.

"I was probably finished with my schoolwork while you were learning how to drive, Mr. Cullen."

"Maybe so. I bet I can guess your age based on the year you received your Bachelor's. That's on record."

"Yeah?"

"If I take four years off and figured you entered right out of high school, that would probably put you at – "

"You're really going to sit there and risk getting your head eaten off for guessing my age? Don't you know that's a big social no-no? You're bold."

I waited to speak until I confirmed the sight of her lips curling up. I knew she was faking it. "And yet you're smiling."

"I don't know why, but your attempts at self-destruction amuse me. First, you sneak up on me at home and then you try to guess my age. It's like you want me to kill you."

"I assure you, murder is the last thing I'd want you to do to me."

I groaned. The professor laughed while my face flamed. "I didn't…that came out wrong." I stared out the window wishing I had a do-over because suddenly I was in a funk.

Once she got a hold of herself there were a few minutes of silence before she spoke gently.

"I'm thirty-two," she admitted. "I didn't mean to tease. I'm not one who gets hung up on her age. I respect the concept of dying and all the messiness that goes along with it. Kind of hard to get away from in my line of work." She shrugged. "You don't have to make guesses. If you want to know something, just ask. Here we are."

We pulled into the gravel driveway of a ranch-style restaurant that opened onto St. George Sound. A middle-aged Hispanic man lumbered toward us with a face of dejection.

The professor parked and pulled on the brake. "Something's wrong. C'mon."

"Kick it," she instructed when my door wouldn't budge. I slid out and jogged over to them as the man I gathered was Guillermo Esteban delivered the bad news. He mopped his worried brow with his sleeve.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Swan, I had to move her. I had no choice."

"No, no, no. I've already had to move Leah into a lab. I need one on the field! What happened?"

Guillermo had been going to the site daily to record the widow's behavior. The problem was that her humble abode happened to be under the back porch of the restaurant, so Guillermo had to visit her in the mornings before the staff arrived. Today, however, he had been running late and bumped into a bout of bad luck.

The owner of the restaurant and his son spotted Guillermo flat on his belly, snapping pictures of the specimen. When the boy got close and discovered the subject of Guillermo's lens, "all hell broke loose."

The boy screamed in terror, inciting the father to kick the area in an attempt to dislodge the spider and kill it, but Guillermo had the foresight to trap the widow before she came to an ill-fated end.

Guillermo retrieved a plastic food container from a canvas bag he had strapped around his neck. In it was the alleged culprit – the black widow was bundled up, legs under her body, and quivering in her plastic prison.

The professor sighed, the tension in her body melted as she smiled tenderly at the spider. "You wouldn't hurt a fly, would you, little girl?" Her ironic smile was small and sad. "I'm sorry you have to go through all this."

Addressing Guillermo, she said, "I don't know what to do. I really needed her to stay there under your observation."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault. It's just…ugh, she wasn't _harming_ anyone! Can't we change their minds?"

Guillermo shook his head. "I tried but the boy's father is angry. He would kill it if we left it there."

"Where are they?"

"Inside. The boy swears he was bitten but that can't be true. He didn't get close enough."

"Such is our luck." She explained to me, "He may have been pricked by a mosquito but if his eyes landed on a spider then a spider is what bit him. He's probably arachnophobic and wasn't aware of it before. It can make a person act irrationally, like they're having a panic attack, which, incidentally, shares similar symptoms with a real widow bite."

"Guillermo, stay close. I have to talk sense into them."

We tucked the spider away in the professor's truck and after belated introductions the three of us entered the restaurant. The place was empty save for the owner pressing a bag of ice on his son's arm, soothing him.

He wasn't so much a boy but a teenager about eighteen years old, wearing denim overalls and a face dripping with undignified tears.

Upon our approach, the father turned red with rage. "What are you doing back here? I thought I told you to leave!"

"Excuse me, sir, I'm Dr. Swan."

"You're a doctor? Help my son. He says he's been bitten."

"Well, I'm not sure about that. I'm not a medical doctor…Oh." Without warning the boy reached out and grabbed the professor's hand.

"Take your hands off her."

"It's okay, Mr. Cullen."

"Charles, let the lady go," said the father, but the boy just shook his head and sobbed, gasping through his tears that he was in pain and it hurt so bad and could the doctor please please help him.

The professor turned and instructed me to stand back, which I did reluctantly.

She crouched to his eye level and spoke softly. "You're going to be okay, Charles. It's just the fear. You're experiencing a case of arachnophobia, do you understand me?"

"It hurts," said Charles, showing her the area of his arm in question. It was barely raised and pink.

"Oh, that looks like a mosquito bite. If it were poisonous you'd be nauseous, you'd have nerve damage, and experience seizing pain." Every word she said only made him cry harder.

"You're making him upset," said the father.

"I'm trying to reason with him," she argued, and then reining in her biting tone, she pleaded. "Sir, I'm conducting field research in this area. That's why my colleague was on your property. If you would allow me to keep the widow there for five more months – "

"No. Are you crazy? It can't stay. You're lucky I didn't kill it in the first place. If you don't help my son, I'll call the police. I've already called poison control and they're sending someone out."

"But it's psychological! Poison control will find a physician who will call me anyway. I can tell you, he's not exhibiting any of the symptoms."

"I don't care what it is, he's hurting – "

"Excuse me, Professor, can I have a word with you?"

She got up from her position and stepped toward me, arm extended as Charles had yet to relinquish his grip on her hand.

We spoke in whispers. "What is it?"

"Is there nothing you can do?"

"No, it's all in his head. If he thinks he was bitten then he was. I'm trying to reason with him."

I wanted to suggest she practice her bedside manner but instead I offered that she use psychology. "Reason's not working. You need to trick him."

"Trick him? What do I look like**,**a pony?"

"If it's psychological, won't he buy whatever you made up? Couldn't you, I don't know, wing it?"

"I thought you said you'd be a ghost."

She was exasperating.

I gestured to the hand holding hers. "Do you want to stay attached to him all day? Look at the size of him, he'd make a teddy bear out of you when it's bedtime."

"Fine. Ghost**,** my ass," she grumbled, turning back to the sick boy and his dad for a final appeal.

"Sir – "

"Johnson."

"Mr. Johnson, you won't reconsider letting me put the specimen back?"

"I said no, I mean no. It stays out of my sight. I'm spraying this whole place tomorrow."

Professor Swan turned pale. "Have you no compassion? It's harmless. I beg you, I'll monitor her myself."

"No."

"We can quarantine the area."

He shook his head, thinning his lips.

"I can pay you."

Mr. Johnson snapped. "My boy's in pain here and all you can think of is that thing!"

"In the name of science, I beseech you."

"If you're not gonna help, get off my property. Take your bodyguards and leave. I'm not the one without compassion. You are!"

She stiffened; his words had hit a sore spot. She may have been zealous about her research, but the last thing I would ever accuse the professor of would be cruelty. Her jaw tightened as if screwing shut the next words that wanted to spew forth out of her mouth.

"Fine. Guillermo, please leave. Charles associates you with the events this morning and it's not helping him. Thank you for your assistance."

"I'll send the data and pictures over this week."

She nodded, satisfied, as Guillermo took his leave and then addressed Mr. Johnson. "I know something that will make him feel better. I'll need a few things from your kitchen."

The professor rattled off a list of ingredients containing tea, herbs, and honey, which Mr. Johnson rushed to concoct.

"The Navajos drank it as an antidote to bites, Charles. I promise you, drink this and everything will be okay."

Charles drank it in one gulp. "The swelling has gone down," she lied, easing him out of his panic. "You feel a slight sting but no pain," her soothing voice worked through him and after the longest five minutes watching her rub his arm and comfort him, Charles finally released her hand and sagged into his chair, relieved. He burped.

"Leave."

Mr. Johnson had lost all patience with us. I knew he would kick us off the premises if we stuck around another second.

The professor struggled to hide her profound hopelessness and with gentle prodding on my part, we walked out of the restaurant silent and defeated.

* * *

><p>Instead of returning to the highway, she drove around aimlessly. She didn't speak. (I didn't think she was capable of speech just then). I had nothing to offer. The day had begun with the promise of discovery and ended on a devastating note.<p>

I was learning that nothing about the professor was predictable so it did not surprise me when we parked before a beach. The wind had picked up and sand sloughed off a kid's lumpy sculpture. Two dogs played in the distance. A seagull swooped down into the water for his lunch.

I dared not look at her, fearing that my body and mouth would attempt to comfort her, and based on the white knuckles gripping her steering wheel, I figured it was best to leave her be.

"I just need a moment," she said, her words quivering, and for one panic-stricken minute, I feared she was going to cry. Instead, I watched her launch out of the truck and speed walk toward the surf. The back of her black skirt collected sand as she marched until her boots were planted at the water's edge.

Keeping my distance, I followed her.

She looked so horribly solitary and frail as she bowed her head in defeat, and just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, just when I thought how fucking exhausting it must be to rally against centuries-old stigma day to day, she threw her fists back as if preparing for flight and heaved a frustrated yell into the wind.

Now, typically, when women screamed around me it was as abrasive as nails on a chalkboard. I wouldn't say it happened often, at concerts, FSU games, the usual. But when Bella yelled it was the song of a very furious Siren. She was a frightfully beautiful sight of one so filled with passion and rage, emptying her body of pain.

It was surreal to witness her spin out of her professional composure and unravel physically, from the sloppy bun coming undone to the huffing firebrand that kicked up sand as she spun and charged toward me.

I stumbled backward.

"He called _me_ crazy. He accused _me_ of having no compassion. Me! How dare he? Doesn't he get it? I care. I care, Mr. Cullen. I care too much. I fight and I fight and I fight about stereotype, it's all I do! I know it's just a spider to everyone else, but not to me. She's more than data, she's…ugh. It was her home.

"It's not the end of the world, the sky is still blue and the ocean is still big but that doesn't mean we have to be so cruel, so purposely blind!"

The professor ranted, throwing up her hands, her emotions skipping between despair and rage and everything in-between.

I felt a shift in her, in me, and in my perception of her. It all became clear to me.

_Mad_

_Ice queen_

_Frankenstein_

_I eat men for dinner_

It didn't take a genius to see it, just someone willing to look past the myth. And what myth? There was no myth.

Isabella Swan, Bella, Professor Swan, Doctor, whatever label she lived by, was no myth.

In one day, I observed a woman who held deep affection for her family, showcasing them on her walls, keeping their memories alive and close to her heart. She was no ice queen.

She possessed relics of sentimental value at the risk of her own well-being. She trusted the people who shared her passion and exhibited tenderness misconstrued as obsession toward unfortunate looking creatures. That was not madness.

She was no different from the rest of the us who simply wanted to believe in a force bigger than ourselves and if that _thing_ was as elusive as a soulmate or the beauty of the natural world then so be it.

She was no man-eater, she wasn't a spider. The professor was a woman brimming with an intensity that lured my primal instincts out of hiding. To bear witness to her palpable fire turned me on. I wanted her to want me, to see me, to be consumed by _me_, under me. Let loose in the real world, uncaged from academia, she wasn't the same composed woman from the stage. She was wild and untamed when left to play by everyone else's rules and as she railed against the injustices against spiders, it dawned on me that she was nothing short of spectacular.

Her hair, which had been pulled back in a dancer's bun, had come undone during her tirade. Her alabaster skin was stained pink and I didn't notice that I had inched closer until the swoosh of her pacing released a draft of her scent. Before I made a dumb move like press up against her, she stilled, vibrating.

"I'm so damn angry, I could hit something!"

I didn't think about it, I brought her wrist to my chest. "Hit me."

She stopped in her tracks, and pulled away. "What? Be serious. It was a figure of speech."

"I am serious." I pointed to my eye. "I'm a fighter, remember? I do this for a living. Hit me, you'll feel better."

"What good would it do?"

"What harm would it do? What are the odds you'll get your specimen back to her web?"

"Ugh. None. The man is crazy."

"And what are the chances Mr. Johnson will spray his whole place for spiders tomorrow?"

"Oh, God. Stop. He'll do it. He'll do it, okay? You're not helping!"

"That's because it's a hard truth that you're going to take to bed with you tonight. But you know as well as I know that tomorrow you'll redouble your efforts, you'll keep searching, you'll never stop searching and so long as you have a breath and guys like Guillermo and your network, hell, even me, so long as you're around, there will never be enough Mr. Johnsons in the world to eradicate them. You've had a loss today but you're not down for the count. You're not done yet."

Her eyes roamed over me like I had sprouted a second head, her chest rose and fell rhythmically. "I'm not down yet?"

"You're not, Professor. If there are two like Leah, there have to be more and we'll find them."

She nodded, breaking out of her red haze, shaking her head.

"Yes, yes. We'll find them." Her expression softened. The clouds of despair from earlier had parted and she cleared her throat in what I suspected was a self-conscious gesture. The last thing I wanted was for her to retreat into the mask of the academic.

"Hit me."

"What? No."

"C'mon, give me one good punch. One for the road. Don't bottle it up."

"Don't try your boxing stuff with me. I'm not like you." She marched off and circled back like a boomerang. "Are you making fun of me, Mr. Cullen?"

"Do I look like I'm making fun of you?"

"I can never tell. You joke a lot."

"I joke a lot?" I bent so we were eye to eye. "'The Navajos drank it, Charles. It's an antidote.' What was that about? Don't try to hide your smile."

"Fine, you brat. I was winging it like you suggested. I added that bit, thought it was a nice touch."

"Who's a tease now?"

"Oh, you're asking for it. You have real balls talking to me like that."

Had I gone overboard? Had I lost my chance with her? Would she tell me to get lost and never darken her door again?

She smelled my fear. "You want me to hit you."

Who knew the woman was easily challenged?

"Go on, and not like a girl."

She rolled her eyes and I smiled at the childish move, the more I egged her on the more she looked like the cheeky young thing holding up a fish in one of her pictures.

My heart hammered. She liked this as much as I did.

"You really want me to hit you?"

"Before the sun goes down, yeah."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"You didn't warn…Oof!" My ass hit the sand. "Fuck!" I doubled over clutching by sides. "I was going to suggest you punch my arm," I wheezed. "But my stomach works, too."

When I opened my eyes I almost barked out a laugh. She was clutching her right fist, mortified. "Do you pack Kevlar under your shirt? Ow!"

She was surprisingly strong for a woman who barely reached my shoulders. "Where'd you get that right hook? Prison?"

She wiggled her fingers and tried to shake off the sting. "Does it count that I was immediately remorseful?"

I nodded. _Apology__ accepted,__ sweetheart._

"I didn't know I could hit like that." She offered her uninjured hand and helped me up. "I was just posturing."

"You had a stressful day," I managed to say between breaths. I was really not prepared for her to go for my stomach. "Next time, we'll get you a bag."

"No next time for me." She dusted me off, oblivious. I was acutely aware of her hands on my back, along my chest, swiping my arms with care. She stepped back and shook the sand from her hands. "There. You'll live."

"Thank you."

She gathered her hair and tied it in a knot, assessing me with a frank gaze. She had no idea how intimate it seemed to me. I gestured toward the parking lot and she nodded, following me. I was glad to leave the ocean behind; I had an irrepressible urge to piss in it and I blamed my friends for that Pavlovian response.

"Are you going to write about this?" she asked.

"No. I'd like to keep my dignity intact. Getting knocked down by a person half my size isn't my idea of good prose."

She stopped our progress. "No jokes, Mr. Cullen." She was matter-of-fact, not chiding me. "I'm embarrassed. I really lost it back there."

"No censoring yourself, remember? You have every right to be pissed. You're not crazy. You're not any of those things people say." Or the image you perpetrate, I wanted to add, but that was better left unsaid. "I like it when you're…just you."

She lowered her head and I wondered if I embarrassed her but, instead, she sucked in a breath and spoke quickly, averting eye contact. "I should thank you." she said. "You're not like the rest, you get it."

I wanted to hold her, to console her and to tether us so we could fight her fight as one but until she made room for me in her heart, I had little to offer.

We reached her truck.

"Feel better?"

"Yes and no. I have the spider but I still don't have one out on the field."

"If there's anything I can do to help."

"Yes. You mentioned that. Really, what do you know about spiders?"

"I know they only hurt when you invite them to."

She threw her head back and laughed. The sound altered everything about us, how we saw each other and how we were meant to be. I knew with her next words that we wouldn't be quite the same again.

"Fine. I need all the help I can get." She opened the door. "You want to see spiders, Mr. Cullen? I'll show you spiders."

* * *

><p>AN:

Faireyfan, dear reader, did a lot of heavy lifting on this one. She ensured I didn't turn this into a crackfic, which is where my mind likes to wander. And as for WriteOnTime, she handed me the best advice ever, and I quote: "Writing is a lot like cleaning a messy room. It's easy to look at what needs to be done and feel unequal to the task. But if you pick up one sock at a time, you get it done. FOCUS ON THE SOCK, D." You see why they're both invaluable to me.


	11. Chapter 11

My deepest, Grand Canyon-sized gratitude to Nina, Alla, and Sar for helping me power through.

* * *

><p>Origins<p>

* * *

><p>After the incident at Mr. Johnson's restaurant, we were in Professor Swan's office when she suggested I spend a day with her conducting fieldwork a stone's throw from her backyard, which coincidentally shared the northwest boundary with Wakulla state forest. I should be prepared, she advised. It was hard work, lots of hiking, and tedious note-taking. "You may have to touch a spider," she teased.<p>

She got up and drew the sites she wanted to show me on a whiteboard, waving her hands as she spoke. Her enthusiasm never failed to enrapture me, and as was my new bad habit, my mind wandered into dangerous territory. While she went on about peeking into bogs, I fantasized about us naked and messy-haired on a blanket of wildflowers. Meeting my glazed look, she reached over and patted my arm. "Don't worry, Mr. Cullen. Most first-timers get jittery. It's only natural. It's going to be fun!"

Right.

When I arrived at her door on the morning of our outing, I had a cold-light-of-day view of her house. Unlike the rainy darkness on my first visit, sunshine dappled through a screen of live oaks shading her house and front yard. The farmhouse – two-story, with a swing on the porch – was weighed down by vine as if the Earth wanted to pull it under. It had not lost its ghostliness, but it wasn't the menacing kind, more like a forgotten haven for sweet sounds like the whispers of small animals in the tall grass. It instilled in me a sense of calm I didn't know I needed.

Resolved, I clutched the potted cactus I'd brought for her, and like a visitor from another age stepping cautiously into his new surroundings, I knocked.

The door was unlocked. It creaked open and there was Bacon, wagging his welcome tail, panting like he had been expecting me. I petted him behind the ears. He leaned into my hand, then yelped and turned to a coffee table beside the door. A note taped to a river stone read: _Had to pick up some equipment. Make yourself at home. Swan._

Make yourself at home was a far cry from a shotgun, and a long ways off from the day we had at the beach when it all changed.

"You must think I'm crazy," she had said the day we drove out of Carrabelle.

What could I tell her? I was head-over-heels for a woman eleven years my senior who caught spiders for a good time. Crazy, Professor, is relative.

"You don't have to say anything." Her cheeks, ruddy from the cold wind on the beach made her seem comely and young. She turned to me. "You have such green eyes," she mused. "Sometimes it's all I can see for your face." She laughed at herself. "I can't believe I said that out loud. I need a filter for polite society, no wonder Mr. Johnson kicked me off his property." She balled a fist. "I should have appealed to his nurturing side. I should have offered to work with his son's phobia. 'In the name of science'. What was I thinking?"

"You were being rational."

"I should have been more considerate of their feelings."

"But you were right."

She shook her head. "Mr. Cullen, I didn't want to admit this before but when you first came knocking on my door, I was desperate."

"Desperate?"

"I really need this grant. I absolutely must have it. I don't think I've wanted anything more in my life. My funding will dry up by the end of the year. I need equipment and a staff."

"So. Desperate?"

"I was this close to securing a specimen in the wild. Now I'm back at square one."

"Desperate."

She nodded. "At this point, I'll accept all the help I can get. I'll make more phone calls, cash in on some favors, and then there's you."

"Me?"

"You know the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. The 'human element' just like you said earlier. You can do that for my project."

"You mean my project."

"Yours, mine. Ours. We'll gain something from this, together. Maybe the board will view this as an opportunity to preen in the spotlight."

_Ours_, she had said, our project. It took great skill to stop a smile from splitting across my face, so I pretended to think it over, nodded, and said, "I'll do what I can."

"Imagine that, now I need you as much as you need me," she said sounding surprised by the turn of events.

It couldn't have worked out any better.

I read the note one more time. _Make yourself at home._

I smiled. If I wasn't Gentleman Ed, I would have gone Goldilocks on her place and tested the firmness of her mattress, rifled through her underwear drawer, but as it stood, love had not corrupted me yet. Besides, I doubted there was enough time to do a proper snoop around. I shoved the note in my pocket and stepped off the raised foyer into her living room, across from which was a glimpse of the kitchen and a hallway to the left of it.

I didn't know how I missed it before but it looked like a garden had exploded in her house. Amidst the furniture, she decorated with plants, lots of them. Clusters of glass jars stuffed with wild flora overtook the room in a display of color and light. I shrugged out of my hoodie. The weather was unseasonably warm, but more so in the house where the drapes had been pulled back revealing tall paneled windows, slanted open. Light shafted across the room and through her glass terrariums making bright flowers appear as if they danced. I moved toward a coffee table where a collection of orchid-filled bell jars caught my eye.

"Mr. Cullen. Good, you're here."

I spun around and there she was, Professor Swan, in a flurry of movement – dropping keys and a stack of mail on a table, hanging her jacket, looking more student than teacher.

I swallowed.

"I can't very well hike in my skirt, now can I?" she said, catching me check her out in a pair of nicely, nicely fitted hiking pants. I didn't think it was possible to love pants so much. She entered the room, smiling pleasantly enough for someone not used to social visits.

She sat on the edge of a sofa like a visitor in her own home, running her palms over her knees self-consciously. It was just my luck, her hair hung in two long braids under a kerchief. I was fucked.

"Aren't you going to say anything? You're going to give me a complex," she said.

I held up a hand. "Sorry. I've never seen you dressed like this," I said, certain I was developing a rash on the back of my neck.

"Like what?"

"You know. You're casual and usually, you're more…"

"Old fashioned?" she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's okay. I'm sure you've been wondering why I always wear the same thing. Everyone does."

"I'm here to take notes on your work, not your fashion sense," I said. "But, yeah, I'm curious."

"The answer's boring, I'm afraid. Like everything else, I've never given fashion much thought. I buy the same skirts and dress shirts. Fits every occasion. Besides," she smiled ruefully, "I have to live up to my reputation as an eccentric, don't I?"

I laughed. "You do love fueling the fire, don't you?" I held forth the cactus. "Speaking of prickly things…"

She lifted a brow.

"This is for you."

She studied the small orange bulb like it was going to eat her. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to. Isn't that what guests do, bring a gift?"

"I guess." She coughed lightly. "I wouldn't know. Thank you," she said, getting up and selecting a spot near the window. She ran a finger over the spindly ridges.

"I figured, you can add it to one of your terrariums," I said. "That is, if you like."

"It's very pretty," she nodded. "I know just the spot." She said almost shyly: "I'm sorry. I'm not used to people doing nice things like this."

"That's a shame."

She exhaled, her eyes losing all traces of softness. "So," she waved a hand at the coffee table. "You like my orchids?"

"I'm not much of a flower guy, but, yeah, they're beautiful, almost surreal. I haven't seen a terrarium since I was fourteen. My friend, Tyler, made one out of an aquarium once. He put a python in his, though. Not like yours. These look like art."

"A python? Oh, that's nothing. Come here."

She showed me a shelf stuffed with books and whimsically shaped glass jars, some small enough to fit between paperbacks. One was shaped like a teakettle. Condensation had gathered at the spout. Ferns and pink starburst leaves I had no name for lived behind the glass along with three miniature tarantulas.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but they're really cute." The blonde critters, furry and beady-eyed, clung to leaves the size of a thumb. One blinked. "They're the smallest spiders I've ever seen."

"Oh, there are smaller out there. But what we have here are Goliaths," she said, smiling.

"I thought they got their name because they were supposed to be huge."

"Absolutely. But this is a rare species from the same genus. The Aranchia Patagonia Bulbosema. I call them 'the triplets'."

Now I understood why the plants looked like they were moving, it wasn't the light, but the specimens in their jars. "Did you make all of these yourself?"

"I did. It's a bit of a hobby, calms me." She ran a finger over another jar crawling with spindly spiders colored like yellowjackets. "It reminds me why I love spiders to much. They're so varied. Each one of them has a story, a personality and they…" she paused then shook her head.

"Go ahead. Say it."

"They make sense to me." She laughed, self-mockingly, not finishing her thought, but I knew what she meant. Spiders were easier to understand than people.

"I hope you're not disturbed. This isn't everyone's idea of decorating," she said.

"It's beautiful if you make no sudden movements."

She smiled. "Are you scared?"

"More like anxious."

She nodded. "You just have to know them. Here, you'll like this one." She pointed to a globular terrarium, impressive at three-feet in height, sitting on a low table. It housed a mini metropolis covered in moss and threadlike vines. A latticework of twigs crawled up one side of the glass where a spider busily shot silk from its fore legs. We bent down for a closer look. She explained: "He's shooting silk. His spinnerets are unusually placed so he must lift his legs."

"Looks like he's shooting out from his wrist. If…he had a wrist."

"Yes," she laughed. "Something like that."

He was a lean spider with a blue abdomen and red legs, swinging between high-rises using a tinsel of webbing.

"He looks like Spiderman." I was transported to my childhood when I planned so many adventures for my favorite radioactive hero. "He's awesome. Where did you get him?"

She watched me with a slight furrow on her brow. "You really like him?"

"What's not to like? Look at him, I can't shake the resemblance."

"He came from the Congo."

"You mean this is one of the infamous spiders you took from the tribe?"

"I didn't _take_ it but yes," she said, standing and peering out the window. "Daylight is in our favor. We should probably go."

"All of these specimens, they're different. I thought you said you didn't collect them."

"What can I tell you, I can't help myself. I love them all, not just the black widow. The light outside is perfect, we should probably go."

"This whole room. It's creepy but not frightening if, you know, these don't fall and break."

"I'm glad you approve. You do better than Bacon."

The dog in question had been in repose watching with studied indifference from the doorway of the kitchen. His ears perked up at his name but he made no indication to move.

"He doesn't like this room," she said, said. "My dog, the scaredy cat."

"Aren't you afraid of one getting loose?"

"If they want to go on a walk, who am I to stop them?" She tapped my shoulder. "C'mon, I'll tell you about Peter another day. We have lots to do."

Peter? A label at the base of the dome said it all: Aranchia Peterparkerus, Congolese spider.

Peter Parker? No fucking way.

"Mr. Cullen? Are you coming?"

"Practically in my pants." I whispered, dying to know what happened in the Congo. I heard the kitchen door open and Bacon bark in the backyard. I left a finger smudge on the glass. "Another time, buddy."

* * *

><p>I caught up with the professor and her dog outside. She zipped up a pack, hoisted it with some effort, and then pitched it at me. I caught it but it was hefty.<p>

"What's in this thing?"

"Notebooks, the balance weight, camera, compass, tape. Stuff."

She strapped on her own bag and set off, ducking under a clothes line and hurrying past her garden toward a flattened path leading into the forest.

"So if I'm carrying the dead body, what's in your pack?"

She peered over her shoulder and smiled. "Lunch."

Bacon trotted beside me while his master charged ahead like we didn't exist. She sidestepped trees like she belonged, unaware that my eyes were centered squarely on her ass. Her braids dangled like a snipped bridle; I had half a mind to tug on them, test them for strength. Before I ended up with a perma-boner, Bacon barked at a passing wild turkey and we watched as the bird ran away, then reared back and clucked at the dog, flapping its wings and ghost pecking at Bacon. The dog retreated and fell back to his owner. "Dumb dog, you're not so mighty, are you?"

I joined them on her left. The day, having just begun, welcomed its morning risers as they twittered and shook in the bushes. "When did you first want to be a biologist?" I said.

She smiled coyly, like I just asked her about an old high-school crush. "Since I was little. My parents were hippies. They were everything you see on TV about flower power and the peace generation, the long hair, hash in the sugar bowl, a healthy belief in extraterrestrial life." The professor walked with hands buried in her pockets; Bacon bounded ahead of us.

"We lived out of a streamliner until I was ten. My parents left me to fend for myself. And before you judge them, know this: it was the best thing they could have done for me. They didn't mind when I brought animals to bed."

"Did you have any friends?"

"Sure, many. There was Louie my pet lizard, Gracie the gerbil, numbers one through seven, and my rabbit, Junior. I also had frogs, salamanders, an iguana. Watch your step here, it gets marshy." We had entered swampland where the muck sucked at the soles of our shoes.

"Sounds to me like you were alone as a kid. No friends. Didn't it bother you, being alone?"

She shrugged, concentrating on the path. "You're nosey."

"I'm writing a story, I have to be nosey. You're evading my question."

She stopped and faced me, swatting away Spanish moss from a branch above. "If you must know, I didn't play well in the sandbox. The other kids didn't like me, I was too weird. God, I feel like such a cliché when I tell you these things."

"You're not a cliché."

"No? Well, it did bother me, okay? I was a lonely child but not unhappy. We never stayed in one place long enough for me to make a friend. I never had to start over with animals so it just happened. One minute I was alone and the next…the next, I was very alone. I got used to it." She tugged on the moss and played with it in her fingers, looking somewhere over my shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm trying."

"I know." Unless it had to do with her work, it was not easy for her to open up, so I let it go. I had secured enough time to get to the heart of the matter. I tugged on her sleeve. "Let's just get to the first site."

She nodded, visibly relieved, and continued on. She pointed to a sinkhole as big as a swimming pool. "On the other side of that, the area's reserved for preservation. In about a mile, I'll show you what I consider beautiful. I found her the other day and she's the craftiest little thing."

We hiked until we reached the edge of a clearing where a giant oak tree stood broad-limbed and shady. "Over here." She called me over to a web dancing between two limbs like a shimmering wheel. A spider, in the middle of building it, worked from the inside out. It had already spun the circle and was in the process of building the spokes radiating out from its hub.

"That's the Nephila Clavipes, an orb-weaver. They call them banana spiders here, but it's also known as golden silk spider, the cousin of the Madagascar weaver. Remember my robe?"

"How could I forget?"

She chuckled. "The design is classic, almost geometric. See how the light makes it seem as if it disappears in the breeze?" The spider, shaped like a…well, banana, belayed and swung up, catching itself on a fresh string of web, winching and stretching it and then swinging to the right. The professor followed it progress with her head as if moved by soundless music. She took off her pack and stood near me, our arms touching. I was warm.

"This is why I love spiders, all of them. She is beautiful to me, transcendent," she said in a dreamy voice. "Dad used to say I was lucky to be born without a lick of fear." She laughed. "It drove him nuts. Look how quickly she works."

"How do you know it's a she?"

"Females are larger and Bessie here is a big one."

"I like the names," I said, moving closer.

"It's a nice way to remember them." She pointed to another spider, considerably smaller, loitering on Bessie's web. "Looks like she has a squatter. I noticed the other morning that they're all coming out early this year. I caught a brown recluse mating already, he had a good time, and yesterday a male and female turtle were hanging out by the sinkhole. It's going to make for a rollicking spring," she said with unabashed glee.

"Sex?"

"Lots and lots of sex. And not just them, we'll see new hatchlings, pups, lots of fox here, chicks. I can't wait."

"You make it sound like it's about to become an orgy in the wild."

"Well, most of them aren't swingers." The professor stuck her hands in her pockets like a proud parent glad to extol the virtues of her domain. "In a few weeks, every creature will come out and fulfill their evolutionary destiny. They will procreate and summer will be abuzz. It will be glorious."

A wistful sigh.

"Except for Leah," I said, invoking the thorn in her side.

"Except for Leah." She sat down at the base. I crouched in front of the professor, who pinched the bridge of her nose like she had a headache. "She confounds me. I've looked into everything, her pheromones, her web. I've observed no remnants of lovemaking. Even under microscopic study I've found no signs of penetration. I've staged courtships with experienced males but she won't take the hint."

"What? You mean you've set her up on blind dates?"

"More like escorts."

"Professor Swan, Madame to the widows. Is that what you were talking about the other day in your office?"

"Yes. I have a stud farm, okay? Male widows, eight of them, Jake, Embry, Paul, etcetera. They've all tried."

"Maybe it's them, the mating pool, you know, is shallow."

"Ha. They are the crème de la crème, with high success rates."

I didn't know where it came from but I needed to understand why Leah had to abide by natural law to begin with. What if she were a rule breaker? "I mean it," I said, my tone taking her off-guard. "What if they're not the right mates? That doesn't make her flawed."

The professor looked at me like I was mad. "I wouldn't use the word 'flawed' but it is her behavior that's the anomaly, not the males."

"Anomaly? Because she doesn't want to have sex with just any male? What if she wants to choose?"

"Choose? Spiders don't choose. There's no biological advantage to choosing. What would be the purpose of it?"

"Maybe there isn't one. Or, this may be crazy, but what if she wants to find the right one?"

She considered my words, thinking out loud. "Leah is well into maturity, a veritable spinster. It makes no sense." She narrowed her eyes. "Oh. That's right, you and love at first sight. They're arachnids and you're human," she said like I was in kindergarten. "You have the advantage of free will and emotion. She, on the other hand, follows the rule of natural law. She mates to breed; it's a chemical and biological response only. She doesn't think like you."

"No," I said, holding her fiery gaze. It felt like we were having the same conversation, but not. "She doesn't think like me. But why is it so hard to believe in a possible shift? You don't have any evidence to the contrary."

"And you have none to support it. Are we going to have this conversation again?"

"Yes," I said. "You can't have one hypothesis without the other. And what was that back at the lecture hall, anyway? 'Ladies and gentlemen, we may have the biological answer to love at first sight.'"

"Parlor tricks, Mr. Cullen. Look, I'll grant you that I'm no closer to finding my answer than proving your notion, and if it were true, it would be a groundbreaking event. A spider sharing the human desire to love," she mocked. "It's far-fetched, but I'd be more concerned of the consequences than celebrating a Nobel. Not only preposterous, it simply can't happen."

"You fight it. Why?"

"While your hypothesis is attractive on a romantic level, the truth is that a shift like this could have tragic repercussions to the ecosystem. Look around you."

I didn't have to. We were in a standoff in the middle of swampy forest, chests rising and falling with the weight of our convictions. If you listened close enough, you could hear a wing flapping in the branches.

The professor softened her tone. "Male spiders would die if they didn't mate, Mr. Cullen. It's their only purpose." She regarded me with heartbreaking eyes. "I'm as curious as you, if not more so, to figure out why this is happening, to have an answer even if I don't agree with it. The problem we're facing is that there are more like Leah. Look at Emily, the new specimen we collected from Carrabelle. No sex means no propagation of the species. Let's pretend you're right, and they're waiting for the perfect mate. And then what? What if he never comes?" She shivered, shaking her head like trying to wake from a bad dream. "Infestation, disease, deforestation happens. And if we managed to salvage it, it would take an era for the system to recalibrate. I can't imagine it as a possibility."

"You're doomsdaying the scenario."

She smiled indulgently. "If that's what you want to call it, so be it. You remove one element in this forest as important as the widow and the entire structure fails." She turned her head up at Bessie, working merrily and ignoring us. The web, powerful enough for the cultivation of robes and Kevlar vests, winked like glass.

"Interdependence, Mr. Cullen, that's the name of the game. I worry because we can't talk about spiders without talking about their home, the tree, and then the bark, and its roots. We can't talk about seasons without the Earth and Sky and their relationship to the tiny creatures that cohabitate within them. The life of the spider ensures us an orderly and precise structure."

"You think she'll be a disruption." She shot me a warning gaze. "A grave disruption," I amended. "But what if it's not. What if it's more of a hiccup? What if Leah's getting creative with her biology?"

"I'll grant you that."

"Okay, so why does it have to be ominous? Maybe it will transform for the better. Your virgin spider has something to say. You're shaking your head."

"We're talking about procreation." She stood abruptly. "You can't have this conversation without sex. You keep going on about a choice and love at first sight. What's your angle, anyway?"

"Nothing," I said, backing away. She was too close. Too close. "What's Leah's life expectancy?"

"Four years under observation, best guess. She's a year old now."

"There's time. Give it time. Perhaps Leah will find a mate. When she's ready."

"I need data."

"Does beauty or truth require explanation?"

She threw up her hands. "Oh, so you're a Romantic evangelist, are you? Amen, and all that. Let's agree to disagree. For now. But if love at first sight is proven, it shall be through biology, not some inorganic spark. Well, now why are you smiling?"

"Deja-vu. I had this conversation in high school with my best friend. I suggested that the choices we don't make are the ones that build our genetic makeup like a missing link."

"And?"

I remembered Rose and a night at the movies, a book that was supposed to hold all the answers, my need to justify my choices. "I was told to just go with it."

She grinned, throwing in her cards for the day. "Smart guy, your friend."

"Rose. She, my best friend."

The professor arched a brow. "You never fail to surprise me, Mr. Cullen." With those cryptic words she turned and opened her bag. "C'mon. Let me show you how this works. We'll plot this area here and –"

"Professor, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be contrary."

"Say no more. It's understandable. We scientists are an iffy lot. When we can't find answers to suit us, we find them in our work. Besides," she said, handing me a water bottle. "This was one of the best conversations I've had in months."

* * *

><p>We worked into the afternoon. Professor Swan cordoned off the research site and marked the location of every spider we found with bright pink tape. She taught me to harvest web samples and to observe and record their movements. We took pictures and together we dusted Bessie's web for easy spotting. She planned to return later that night with nothing but a headlamp and her notebooks, just to watch.<p>

Before we moved on, the professor handed me a twig. "It's time we weigh her. Would you like to do the honors?"

"I don't know. I might hurt her." I hedged, but the professor was on to me.

"Okay, tell you what." She neared until her chest nearly touched mine. She tilted her head. "Hold still," she said in a low voice. "I want to try something."

So close, I forgot what we were talking about. "Try what?" I licked my lips.

"We're going to rid you of your fear." With that, she pushed down on my shoulder until I was sitting with my legs splayed out.

"That's not necessary," I said, moving to get up. "I'll get her off the web."

"Oh, be sensible. How can you help me if you can't get past your own fears? And don't say you're not scared. You don't have to admit it, even a big boy like you can handle this itsy bitsy," she said, eyes full of mischief. "Now, we're going to try something. Trust me."

After demurring like a pansy, I complied.

"Close your eyes. I'll walk you through it. Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Good, I'm taking her off the web. She's a sweet thing. Aren't you girl? Breathe deeply and relax. Hold your arm out."

I tightened my lips, anticipation spiking my fear. What I wouldn't do for this woman.

"Breathe again," she said.

Before I was done exhaling, a feather light sensation tickled my arm and I sucked in my gut. I stiffened.

"Relax. It's just a spider," she said, amused.

"Funny."

"Keep still. Allow her to investigate her surroundings. She's curious. You haven't tried to hurt her." I concentrated on the professor's words, husky and whisper-close. "She likes the crook of your elbow. If you were a tree, she'd fold her legs under and sun herself. How wonderful the trust she gives you." Her sing-soft voice lulled me and my lungs expanded as she spoke.

Bessie clicked up and down my arm but it was as if I could feel her under my skin in the way blood surges, an all-body high, humming. I dropped my head, certain my face was red from a new shame. My body's vigorous response to danger and fear had taken root in my pants.

"It's okay to be frightened of what you don't know. Think of it like this, to her you hold the power of a rock or a shoe." I felt the professor shift. "You can do anything to her. You can develop ways to eradicate her entirely if you so choose." I focused on her scent, musky and sweet. I knew this scene like the back of my hand. With eyes closed, I pictured her in front of me, head bent toward my shoulders, kneeling between my legs. "It is not you nor the spider with the power. It is fear. Fear is the most terrible of weapons. The trick is to turn fear into excitement." It was working, the excitement, it pulsed. She shifted again and I could feel her breath on my skin. "We have to turn that fear into something else," she insisted into my ear, the spider dancing at my wrist.

"Excitement," I whispered, my heart beating fast.

"Yes. Picture something that makes you happy."

"That's easy."

"Isn't it thrilling?" she said.

"Very."

"Good. Just feel."

I smiled, surprised that a giggle wanted to break past my lips.

At that moment, the sensation on my arm ceased. "Open your eyes."

I blinked. She knelt before me wearing a serene smile. She wiggled her fingers at me. Bessie was nowhere to be seen. "She's tucked away in the knot of the tree," said Professor Swan.

"You never took her off the web? She never touched me, that was you."

"Yes. She doesn't have to move to invoke your fear, she just has to _exist_." The professor spoke sadly. "People get carried away over the silliest things, it's a shame they have to miss all this color. The fun is in the surviving. What's so wrong with that?" She winked.

"Wow."

"And, Mr. Cullen?" She stood and dusted the only spot on her pants that wasn't grass-stained, sounding preoccupied in the next sentence: "Thank you for trusting me." She cast a cursory glance at my laid out state, the palm of my hands holding me up. She became wide-eyed and left in a hurry, calling over her shoulder, "I think it's time for lunch."

I would tell myself later that the back-to-back placement of our bodies as we ate had nothing to do with her witnessing the hard-on in my jeans.

* * *

><p>It was dusk by the time we were finished working. We packed our gear and took our time getting back. She had no more lessons for me so instead she opened up about her school years. Alone, always going at it alone. Occasionally, she pointed out her favorite sitting spots or brought a honeysuckle to my nose, oblivious at how sweet she seemed. Once, she made us watch a den of foxes on the other side of a mulberry bush. The professor did not mark time between work and rest. She lived to play, all the time. I marveled at her intelligence but it was her childlike wonder, which nearly broke my heart.<p>

It felt like we were the last two people on Earth. Except for Bacon's tired panting, I would have been convinced of it. Her dog had splashed through every spring and creek we came across, scattering water bugs for amusement. "I'll have to take the hose to him before I let him inside." The professor handed me a sturdy stick and I launched it far ahead for him to catch.

"Where'd you find him?"

"Port Angeles, another small town in Washington. Someone left him and his siblings in a box under a restaurant. Poor Bacon. He was the smallest. He is so stupid I have to love him."

"Does he ever wear out?"

"Eventually. He's probably starving now."

At that, my stomach grumbled louder than a frog quartet.

"I've monopolized your day, haven't I?" She rubbed her arms as if cold and said on impulse, "If you're hungry, I was going to make dinner. Not to keep you…you're probably busy, but I hate that you worked and I didn't feed you prop– "

"I'd fucking love to."

She threw her head back in breathless laughter, smiling radiantly like I wasn't a Mister anything. She leveled a gaze at me. It was powerfully heady. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" she teased. "I bet it's from hanging around your boxing buddies, all that testosterone. Does she even approve of you getting knocked around all the time? If I were her – "

I tensed. "You're not."

"Oh, of course not, but surely she worries."

"I doubt she worries about me at all," I said as we reached her backyard. Bacon scratched the door, his food bowl calling him. The professor shrugged out of her pack, regarding me with an odd expression.

"We don't know where she is," I explained. "She left. It's just me and my dad."

"I'm – "

"Please don't say you're sorry," I said, handing her my pack. "Not you."

"I wasn't going to take pity. I was going to say I'm always touching sore points with you, aren't I?"

How could she say that when I'd been the one invading her privacy for weeks? I couldn't not love that about her, her warmth, so beguiling. She had no idea the affect she had on me.

She let the dog in and we stood at her back door as if the mention of my absentee mother had changed everything, and it had. I knew if I went inside her inviting kitchen, somehow the whole story would get pulled out of me. I wasn't ready for it.

"Professor."

She turned to me as if she knew what I was gong to say, braced for it, even. "Do you mind if I take a raincheck?" The rest went unsaid. She knew.

With one foot in the kitchen and the other bathed in dull dusky light, she reached forward and gripped my arm. "Say no more." Her cheek, caked with a little dirt, looked soft enough to touch and I wanted to. Instead, I nodded gratefully and we made plans to meet again, all the while she blocked the view into her home, granting me no further access.

We said goodnight and I rounded the house to my car. Driving home, I didn't reflect on her glass menagerie or our conversations. Only her parting words kept me company as I re-entered the city limits.

"You know," she had said, her arms crossed as she leaned at the entryway, "I think it's admirable that you take your job seriously. You're a fantastic observer of the world around you, always taking notes, constantly weaving someone else's story. That's your brilliance." She frowned. "But all that time studying other people, who observes you, Mr. Cullen? Do you let anyone do that? I wonder how is it possible to uncover other people's mysteries without digging for your own."

I had no answer, just a lump in my throat. She nodded with finality and went inside, closing the door behind her.

* * *

><p>AN:

I wouldn't google some of the spiders mentioned because they only exist in this imaginary world called Sketches of Ultimate Love, and in that world, sometimes WriteOnTime creates a creature or two. As do I. On the other hand, the banana spider does exist in your world and if you watch it making a web, it really is pretty.

Sorry about the wait, truly. It was as painful for me as it was for you, and while that doesn't explain away the months I've kept you waiting (you don't want a rambling AN, do you?), I will confess this much: We're over the hump and I'm lighter today than I have been in a long time. Barring and major life malfunctions, it won't happen again. Jeez, I missed you guys.

If you're still reading this thing, say hi. If you're not, say hi anyway. I'd love to hear what you thought of Edward and the Professor. Cheers and thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

><p><strong>Courtship<strong>

* * *

><p>When I wasn't at the gym or school, I was with the professor. My schedule was wearing me down. Aro had increased my hours and it wasn't for doing me favors. Felix had a big fight coming up, which meant Caius and I double-teamed to prepare him every day starting at the crack of dawn. I ran around all the time and took to napping in my car.<p>

One day, I was in the professor's backyard working on the first draft of my paper. Marcus was a stickler for details and I was stuck on a problem but I couldn't stop yawning, and I had no focus in me. Bacon was off somewhere chasing squirrels while his owner worked in the garden, bent over, pushing dead leaves aside. Her hips swayed as she tended her plot. I sipped on my iced tea watching the show, craning my neck when she reached for a tool.

"How do you spell 'Theridiidae'?" I said.

She responded absentmindedly while driving a spade into the soft dirt, planting seeds. She patted down the soil with her fingertips and pressed twice for good measure. She rose and dusted her hands on her apron and stretched her arms above her head, like the first time I saw her in New Orleans. For the millionth time, I had the urge to push her against a wall and kiss her everywhere.

"I think I'm going to plant okra this year," she said to herself. "I can't believe I've gone this long without trying it. I like to think I can eat anything. I better put my vegetable where my mouth is." She laughed at her own joke.

She untied her apron and lifted her chin toward my paper. "How's it going?"

"Good. I submit it after spring break."

"Time flies, that's next week." She washed her hands with a garden hose, letting water puddle in her palm. She sipped.

"It's only the first draft. I'll still need you, you know, for fine-tuning."

"Of course." She stepped up to me. "Then you'll be done," she said.

"I'll be done. I'll be a graduate."

She smiled, pleased. "That's not so bad, then."

"No. I don't think so."

"I think I'll miss you." She said it softly with a frown and a little shake of her head.

"I'm not going anywhere. Are you?"

"Not any time soon, no."

"Good," I held her gaze, which she did not break, watching me as if waiting for something.

"Good," she whispered.

It was happening more of late, this thickness in the air, palpable as a craving, whenever our conversations took a turn. It gave me pause. Was she experiencing the same pull to touch? How did a guy know to make a move with a woman like her?

_"Show her Mr. Nasty, man. Gentleman Ed is dead," was Emmett's proclamation, and the barflies who overheard us discuss my business cheered and hooted his wisdom. _

I held out, biding my time and subsisting on the little moments I caught her staring when she thought I wasn't looking. She danced in and out of my orbit all the time, agitating and slackening the physical tension we had going. It was there, but did she want to act on it?

Bacon bumped her knee, breaking our connection. The dog had been across the yard, barking at a trio of hummingbirds by the feeder.

"Are you allergic to something?" I gestured to her neck. "You're flushed."

She fanned herself, surprised. "That? Oh, um, that's nothing. The heat, maybe? Yes, that's what it is. Ugh, Bacon!"

She crinkled her nose. "Whew. Do I have to give you a bath, pup?" She sniffed his coat and frowned.

Then she sniffed me. "You smell like a gym bag."

"I had a hobo shower today." I yawned. "Sorry. I was running late."

"I didn't want to say this and offend you, but you have looked run down, lately. Am I boring you?"

"Never."

"Well if that's the case, what's going on?"

I told her about school and work and waved it off.

"I keep you out too late."

"No, you don't."

But she wasn't listening. She snapped her fingers. "I have an idea. Follow me."

We climbed an outer staircase to the second floor. "This is the garden entrance." We entered a corner studio, sparse and airy, with a ceiling fan and a small bathroom. The professor ran her hand over a plain wooden desk, appraising the room. "It needs dusting and more furniture. The futon creaks but it's comfortable. What do you think? You can clean up here; rest. Write, if you like." She crossed her arms watching me circle the room.

"What about your privacy?"

She shrugged. "What about it? I trust you. Besides, I wouldn't want you to stink up my place, you smell worse than Bacon. That's saying something."

That's how it had become with us: inseparable. I used the room to write on the weekends, listening for her footsteps or her call to lunch. Sometimes we talked for hours about a whole lot of nothing or the exotic places she'd been to, just us, on her porch or in the woods.

Once, I found her in the sunroom on the southern end of her house, curled up on a loveseat with Bacon snoozing under her arm like the portrait of a young girl content, napping with her pet. She must have felt me then, having woken up, blinking and smiling like she didn't mind me there. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And it was. Like we were born for this.

On campus, she introduced me as her shadow. She got a kick out of that. When we strolled the grounds together, she turned heads. It went without saying that I leaned in closer, bent my head to hers when she spoke, wanting every asshole to know it was me who held her attention.

Because of her, I found the balls to do that thing they call _opening up_. One morning, I watched her mumble irate while she studied a male widow under a microscope – Leah had done it again, driven another away. "Completely stubborn of her," said the confounded professor. "He lasted barely three minutes. I think that's a record."

The words left my mouth without preamble, without provocation. "My mom left us when I was twelve." There. It was out.

She clicked off the lamp and swiveled in her chair. She slid her glasses off her head and tucked them into her skirt pocket, all the while studying me like she'd never seen me before. "Go on."

"I don't know why I'm telling you now, but you asked before."

She nodded as if afraid to say anything. I started from the beginning. She suggested we walk and talk and so in the forest, I blathered on about my life story. It felt like I didn't know my own voice, all the things I was saying. I wanted to travel, I told her, I was sad for my father. I even told her I missed my mom, something I'd struggled to admit even to myself.

She had been silently listening, nodding at the right times, and sighing like she understood. When I was through, I felt limbless but good, like something bad had ended.

We had come upon a meadow. Spring was lush and wildflowers were budding in thick spurts around the forest.

"Did you ever figure out why she left?"

"She left us a note. I never read it. Dad did, but there was nothing useful in there. For all we know she ran off with the milkman."

"Oh. _I'd_ want to know. The curiosity would kill me if she were my mother. I'd track her down and have her explain."

"What's there to explain? She left and never came back. She was fed up with us."

She put her hands in her pockets and shook her head. "You can't say that. Maybe there were complex reasons."

I snorted. "I don't think so. Can't you ever just accept something for what it is?"

"No," she said, disgusted by my question. "It would drive me nuts to not know. How do you deal with it?"

I grinned, bouncing on my toes, jabbing the air.

"That's why you beat yourself up? That's so cliché, you deal with emotional turmoil by fighting?" She threw her hands up. "Such a typical male."

I danced around her, feigning right then left, stepping lightly. She waved to swat me away. "You asked, you wanted to know. What do you expect? I'm like every other sane person that wants to run from their past. Instead of smoking or drinking," or fucking, "I work out. It's a no-brainer."

"It wasn't your fault."

"That's logic," I said, tapping her temple. "I get it, but it doesn't make what she did here," I pointed to my heart, "any better. Most days, I don't think about her."

She felt sorry for me, it was all over her pretty face and it made me shrink inside. Why did I let my mouth run away from me?

She stepped forward.

I stepped back. "Don't feel sorry for me."

"I don't."

"Then why are you hugging me right now?"

She had wrapped her arms around my waist and I marveled how perfectly her head fit under my chin. Oh, her warmth seeped right through my bones and I forgot about my sad little story. "This is a pity hug, isn't it?"

I felt her smile before I heard it in her voice. "Call it what you want. But it's what friends do to comfort each other."

I didn't know I needed comfort. I circled my arms around her. "Friends." That dirty, no-good word. "Is that what we are?"

She pulled back slightly. I held on. I did not care how she got to be in my arms, but now that I had experienced the softness of her body, no answer she gave me could force me to let go.

She watched me, thoughtful, like she was unsure about something. "Yes," she said. "Yes. Friends."

* * *

><p>Then one night, it happened.<p>

It was a Saturday, late. I was headed home after a baffling day at the gym when the professor called, harried. Could I come by, she asked, and I told her I would without asking as to why. I didn't bother going home to change out of my sweats. I made a U-turn at the light and pushed the speed limit.

I rolled into her driveway under the cover of clouds and a fast drizzle. She was lying down on the porch swing under the orange glow of a lone bulb that cast shadows over her face. She was disheveled, barefoot, and her hair was frayed from the humidity. A bottle of wine sat on the floor. Now, I'd seen her drink. I knew her nose turned pink and she sighed a lot when wine hit her blood stream.

"Are you really drunk?"

"No," she sighed.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

She sighed again.

I picked up the wine bottle. Empty. I squatted beside her. "What happened? You're worrying me."

"I was at the department mixer. Why weren't you there?"

"I had work, I told you." She nodded with a sulky lip, knowing, but whining for the hell of it. It was one of the functions Angela and I were supposed to attend, but since I went rogue on our original plan there was no need for me to go, not when I had work. Not when my purpose had been served. Watching the professor loll her head to the side, resigned, I realized with a heavy heart that she needed me tonight.

"I picked a fight with James Vanderlay," she confessed. "And then I offended the Dean by declaring his department was not even suitable for the study of stuffed animals. He laughed, but I don't know if he thought I was being funny. I wasn't. I may have lost my stay at the University."

I whistled. "No wonder you wanted to get drunk." I grabbed her empty glass. "Maybe we should get you some water."

"Only if I can chase it with more wine. I'm not done washing away this pig's poop of a day."

"Pig's poop?"

"Don't you make this funny," she half-scolded, smiling.

I went into her kitchen, dusted off a wine bottle from her stash, and grabbed a second glass.

"Hey." I nudged her arm. "Was that all that happened tonight?"

She ignored my question and straightened up on her elbow like it just occurred to her. "Why didn't you tell me about Angela? You know her and didn't tell me."

I knew this was going to burn me sooner or later. "It never came up. I found out she was Ben's girlfriend and your research assistant on the same day. Pure coincidence."

"You and your coincidences. You have more of them than a person has pocket change. See, this is why I like spiders. They don't hold back like people do. They're straight shooters," she said without irony.

"Look at you, you made a pun. C'mon, this isn't about me. You didn't call me here to scold me about Angela. I barely know her."

"She said you asked about me. Did you?"

I poured her a glass of red and sat on the floor, leaning my back against the swing. "Come to think of it. Why _did_ you call me over?"

"Don't avoid the question," she said.

"Don't you avoid the question."

"Ugh. So childish."

"You amaze me. You act like you don't know. You're the elusive Professor Swan, of course I asked about you. Everybody does."

"Fine, I called because I didn't want to drink alone."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

She grunted, neither assenting nor dissenting.

We watched the rain mist up at the edge of her porch, pattering a raucous music over the trees and the earth, trembling before our eyes. A flash of lightning lit the forest beyond in garish white and thunder hurled itself against the trees, a force delivered to the gut. The professor jumped behind me.

"Want to go inside?" I said.

"No."

"I can't believe you're afraid of thunder."

She didn't reply at first but then in a small voice she said, "I don't like it when I'm alone."

"I can tell you what happened to me today," I said.

"Okay."

"I punched a wall."

"Why, Mr. Cullen? Was it looking at you funny?"

"I had a bad day." I glanced at her. "Why do you call me 'Mr. Cullen'? I've heard you pee in the woods…"

"Well, that's necessity, it's nat – "

"I've eaten your nutria stew, which, contrary to popular opinion, doesn't taste like rabbit."

"I thought you liked it."

"I don't even think _you_ like it." Her mouth snapped shut. "My point is that we're familiar now. Haven't I proven myself to you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The day we go by first names is the day I know all of your secrets, Mr. Cullen."

"What makes you think you don't already?"

"Please. You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you evade. You were going to tell me why you had a bad day."

She tucked her skirt between her legs and waved me on. "Tell me."

I reached into my pocket and handed her the flyer. She didn't take it.

"What is it?"

I unfolded it and put it in her hand. "It's a fight in New Orleans. Next month."

She read it: "Felix 'The Brick' Anderson versus Laurent 'Golden Boy' Ducasse. This is the man you train."

"For two years now. I've been putting in a lot of hours getting him ready. But today everything went wrong. He's kind of a…simple guy. I left him in the ring, we were sparring, and I was called away. Before I knew it, he was fighting a thug who'd watched us work out, thought he could do better, act like Muhammad Ali. I don't know."

"So what happened?"

"I found out that the instigator is fresh out of the pen, maximum security, a real scumbag. He didn't play fair. He fought like a rabid dog, down and dirty. The gloves came off, then came the blood."

"Oh, God."

"I jumped back in the ring, scared shitless because, at the end of the day, Felix is my friend. He's a good guy who can't say no to anyone. But the damage was done when we pulled them apart. The other guy got the worst of it."

"Boxing is a ridiculous sport."

"Don't. Don't do that after one story. Felix will be alright. But his ribs, though. That wasn't boxing, professor, that was assault. And now I have a bigger problem. Aro's livid."

"Well. I guess this Felix guy won't be going to New Orleans."

"No. _He _won't."

That's when I saw it, the shivery fear as if it were me cut up and bruised, her tells were there. Had I been naïve and blind? That look; she cared. She cared more than she let on. I swallowed and she watched me do so.

"I guess you've earned the first shot of the night. Edward."

* * *

><p>We tucked into the whiskey. I rubbed my neck with a wet towel. We were in her kitchen, sweltering, all because she claimed hunger.<p>

"You must be sweating in that thing."

I rolled up the sleeves of my hoodie. "I'll live."

"If you say so." I sat on a stool in the corner and put my foot on the wall, it had become my favorite spot to watch her mill about.

"I don't really hate your nutria stew."

She smiled wryly into the refrigerator, selecting lunchmeat. "It's okay. You're right. It's not for everyone. It's just the right thing to do, helps save the ecosystem."

"They're swamp rats."

"I try not to think about it that way." She shrugged. "They're ravaging Louisiana's wetlands. There are other ways to control their numbers but I like to look at it as doing something useful." She bumped my knee with her thigh. "Someone has to eat them."

Touching, bumping, skimming, grazing; I liked her way with whiskey.

She was concentrating on slathering bread with mayo when she spoke. "Are you really going to fight for Felix?"

"I don't know. A part of me wants to, but another part...my dad would hate it. I'm not sure I'd like it, either."

"Well, you're not obligated. You can always say no. Can't you?"

"Aro doesn't compromise. He's been harassing me to shape up or get out. I don't know if I want to call his bluff. The gym's this other life, this part of me I don't share with anyone. You ever have that? It's where I belong, my second family."

She handed me a sandwich, all the while listening. "Laurent's a middleweight veteran, but with Felix out, Aro will change up the odds, pitting me as the undercard, the greenhorn. The pay is all about taking hits so Laurent gets the win. I'm paid to lose."

"You just stand there and take it?"

"No, I'll do damage but I can't beat him. My job is to go down."

"Doesn't seem fair."

"It pays five to ten grand."

She sat down. "What? That's a lot of money." She was on her fourth or fifth glass. Her skin was splotched pink. She fanned herself. "It's like a sauna in here." She undid a button.

"Money, the bane of my existence. Why can't people simply give me what I want and leave me alone? What I could do with that grant money." She swirled her glass, eyes on the ceiling as if gold coins danced above.

Then she undid _another_ button.

"I could afford air conditioning for the entire house. Or I would buy my own electron microscope. I would give anything for one."

"Yeah?" There was a thought.

"Hmhm. Vanderlay keeps the university's under lock and key. You need an appointment to use it. I've never heard of such a thing. Fool. If I had my own, I could move all my research here. It's the only benefit of working on campus anyhow. They cost fifty thousand dollars. Not easy money to come by."

I did the math. I could raise her money. It would take time, but it could be done. The ease with which the thought struck startled me. How could I not do this for her?

Bacon had come into the kitchen and plopped down next to his mistress. She ran her toes over his white coat.

"Why are you so quiet over there?" she said, softly, so softly I barely heard it for the pelting rain battering against the tin shed and all manner of chaos created by the storm.

"Was thinking about you. The first time we were in this kitchen." I smirked. "You intimidated me."

She laughed. "So now you realize I'm a harmless pussycat, right?"

"I bet you bite."

Her eyebrows rose. "Mist…Edward," she corrected, hand on her heart, solemn. "A lady never bites."

She tipped her glass at me. "Unless you're Leah."

"Is she all you ever think about?"

She got up and splashed water on her face. "Not always," she said, glancing at me. She dabbed her chest with a towel, dragging it so it dampened her white shirt. "But, mostly."

She offered me a glass of water, closing in on me with that shirt opened, and a bra that teased out. I resisted the urge to shift in my seat, to pounce, to push toward the inevitable coming like the vibrations of a train firmly on track, this stifling flirtation of ours rumbled on, and I knew.

"You know that feeling you get when your heart's about ready to burst? When it beats so fast you think you're dying?" She put a damp palm over my heart. "And it's almost painful right here?"

It was honey-dense, her whisper. "That's what a breakthrough feels like. You get answers to questions you didn't know you had. It's a rush."

She sighed, her hand on me. I covered it with my own, searching her face.

"You're burning up."

Sweat ran down my spine. "It's alright."

"No," she said, voice husky. "Take off your jacket."

I did as she said, watching her tilt her head when she saw I had nothing else underneath. And when she held her breath, I brought her between my legs.

She wrapped arms around me. "You're shivering." She ran her hands down my back.

I nodded on her shoulder, trembling, feeling pitiful over the effect she had on me and then pitiful some more because that was a right pitiful sentiment. How much whiskey did I drink? How did this work?

"I like when you call me Edward," I said.

"I like 'Mr. Cullen' better."

I lifted my head and grinned. "Of course you do."

"What are we doing?"

"You're beautiful, you know that?"

She laughed self-consciously, shaking her head. "I think you're the drunk one."

"I'm stone cold sober," I said, lowering my neck as she dragged fingers up my spine. I was burning for this, on the cusp of seeing sparks in the back of my head.

"How long?" she asked.

"A very, very long time."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

I lifted my head and arched my brow. "I've been waiting for you."

"For this, you mean." She put lips on my Adam's apple and I gripped her waist, struggling with my body, coaching my head, the one losing all function (the other strained perfectly at attention) to stay in the game.

"For you," I croaked.

I reached for her hand and held it to my chest. My heart pounded. "This is what you do to me. Don't you feel it?"

She shook her head, eyes fastened on our hands.

"The first day in your office. You told me then."

I tipped her chin. "You don't lie."

She opened her mouth to argue but I was done waiting.

Done.

I kissed her, taking her little noises into my mouth, pushing and pulling on her sweet whiskey tongue. I was racked with this fever to lay in on her hard and sloppy. Finesse could go to hell, I was unhinged by the grip she had on my shoulders, wanting this as much as I did. Without thinking, I pushed my hips forward, hitting the spot, no longer elusive, but effusively hot.

We moaned.

I kissed the side of her mouth. "Bella. Bella, Bella, Bella." I pressed her into me from the curve of her ass. My hands strayed lower. "Say it again. Please."

"Say what?"

I groaned at her breath at my throat. "You know what."

"Edward."

Oh, the frenzy. I was floored by the tender offering of her firm mouth, all that tongue, it speared me in that place of reverence and supplication where I yearned viscerally and wild. I had not fantasized about the wildness. I couldn't conceive the wildness. I did not know. How could I know?

I was vaguely aware of Bacon whining, and the branches in the storm scraping against a window. With our mouths attached, her hands played all over my skin and I pushed mine into her raucous dark nest, pulling her to me as we stumbled into the living room. I had no more control of it than the weather, this ferocious need to own a piece, to dominate, to tackle her down since I'd first laid eyes on her.

There was a couch and falling.

I ground into her – manna – riding the wave of her writhing body. She raised her hands behind her head and bit her lip, making me weak. When had she lost the bra? I was struck dumb at the sight of her tits, my hands covering her tits, her abundant, fleshy tits. I squeezed. All the answers in this godforsaken world were found on a woman's soft pillows, I was convinced of it. I lowered my lips and latched.

Later, I would regret how overwhelmed I was, out of control. I was distracted by the spread of her shoulders, the tug on my hair when she demanded my mouth. The pleasure blinded. I returned to sucking on her nipples – those tight rosebuds on creamy skin. I lost track of which base I was on, not caring if I made it home as long as my streak did not end prematurely – a laughable, futile wish given how my cock rubbed between her legs like it wanted to start a fire through our clothes.

What happened was: she bucked like a bronco and I was gutted. Done in. Over. Too quick. I shuddered theatrically as she pulled me down and captured my strangled cry with her mouth, devouring every convulsion.

Altogether, I lasted five minutes. It could have been worse, it could have been four. I was spent.

She delivered me miniature kisses with eyes wide open, and glossy in the dimness. I felt safe and awed by her. A knot formed in my throat. Too emptied to speak, I put my lips on her forehead, salty from sweat. And so it went, we made out, languid, our fingers lingering on skin, whispering in the dark, and when I couldn't bear her divine noises, I reached down into her skirt, but she stayed my hand.

I held on until her eyelids fell. I carried her upstairs. She sat drowsy on the bed and I found a t-shirt to pull over her head. She tugged on my pants and turned her head up to me like a little girl, dopey-eyed and grinning. "Don't drive," she said. "Stay."

I did. We sunk into a pickled sleep.

* * *

><p>The next day I was at the gym when a shadow fell over me.<p>

"How many are you up to?"

I handed the medicine ball I was using for crunches to Caius. "One-fifty," I said, standing.

He threw a towel at me. "Tomorrow, you'll do two-hundred and fifty." We talked about the schedule for the following week. With Felix out, everything was in flux. "He was asking for you," he said.

"Felix? He home yet?"

"Yeah, he'll be fine, just not ready." Caius didn't have to say the rest; they were all waiting for me to walk into Aro's office with my decision.

"I don't know yet," I said to Caius. In the three years that I'd known him, he never raised his voice, or asked you to do anything he wouldn't do himself. He was the best trainer in town simply because he actually liked his fighters. Yet it was no secret, like his brother, he wanted me to be Volturi's next big contender. It was preferable than scouting for new talent they couldn't trust.

"You'll know when you know, son." He pressed a water bottle in my hand. "There's a girl outside, says she knows you."

"Is she yea high, wearing a long black skirt?"

Caius grinned, fangs and all, a rare sight from him. "Yeah, that's her. You better go see her before Aro catches you slacking off."

"I'm on it."

"Get out of here," he said to my back. "You're lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree."

I forced myself not to break into a sprint. I couldn't stop thinking about her since the night before. I left her asleep – my prized bundle under the covers. All day I was anxious to hear from her and what Caius didn't know was that I had already cleared a ten-mile run, fifty pull-ups, and two-hundred sit-ups before breakfast just to keep from going insane thinking about her.

I found her by her truck, pacing, pulled together. I sauntered up like a peacock because I'd seen her without her top.

"I'm sorry about coming to your work but we need to talk."

"Hi." I cornered her and kissed her, my hands on the roof of her truck for fear they'd go haywire on her skin. Her fingers gripped the towel around my neck and I moaned when her knuckles dragged across my stomach. "I missed you." Oh, my desire would have been embarrassing to a craven man but I didn't give two shits if she knew I walked around with a boner for her.

But she did. She did because she pushed me away.

"What's wrong?" I leaned in but she put her arms out, pain in her eyes.

"God. You're twenty-one," she accused, as if she blamed herself for my youth.

"So? I'll be twenty-two in June."

"But I'll be thirty-three in November."

"Which makes you eleven years my senior. I can do math." I held her shoulders and gaze. "Had we all the world but time, right?" I smiled. "Look. The world's not going to stop spinning any time soon because you hook up with a younger guy. I know I finished fast, but I'll get better." I backed up, giving her space. "I want to kiss you so bad right now," I admitted.

She dropped her head. "I've never done this. How do I begin to keep you entertained? How do people do this?" She started panicking. "What if you leave? What if I have to go away? I don't have time for that sort of thing, I'm not always around. I don't know, I would have to consider your feelings all the time and – "

"I'm not a baby, I don't need entertaining. Look, nothing needs to change except, you know, we can kiss and stuff."

Her blush was so pink, I wanted to confess all my dirty thoughts just to keep it there..

"I liked what we did last night. It was fun."

"I did, too," she said weakly. "A lot." I reached for her hand. "But I've never done that before and it scares me. You are so sweet and sincere," she stared pointedly at me, "and dangerous all at once. I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Wait. You think this is a passing fancy for me?"

She slid her hand from my grip.

"It means, I don't think it's a good idea to repeat last night. I'm hanging by a thread at the University and my reputation…I. This grant. If we indulge like last night, it will complicate everything."

I leaned against her truck, hands across my chest while she panicked, throwing out lame excuses. Behind her, a group of guys checked her out. I grit my teeth. I had no claim on her, not yet, but I stared down the bulky one with eyes for her ass. He sped up when he saw me and by the time he went through the door, I'd decided on a sparring partner to work out this fucking emotional kink.

She bit her lip, a move I'd only seen once. On her back and topless. Oh, Bella, so this was you: a lip-biting chickenshit who just had to be crushingly beautiful while she broke my heart.

I didn't come this far to lose her over what? Nothing.

"Fine."

She paused her freak out. "Fine?"

"Yeah, on one condition. We return to business as usual, platonic. I finish the paper and graduate."

"Okay. What's the catch?"

"After graduation, you give us a fair chance."

"You might find out I'm not worth it, Edward. You should be with girls your age, sowing oats, partying, rah, rah, rah."

"I'm not a rah-rah kind of guy and you know it. Last night wasn't all whiskey, and I don't sow oats, alright? I don't even like oats. Fuck oats. I want you, Bella. And I'm not stupid; you want me, too. Don't deny it."

She turned her head to the clear blue sky, looking for an answer. Never again would I see her as _the professor_. To me, she was the girl from last night, my wild-eyed Bella. She was still in there.

She shook her head. "I won't deny it. I already said it. I liked it, more than you know. Yes, there's chemistry but maybe that's all it is. Maybe, it's just lust."

"Just lust. Right. Keep telling yourself that." There was no use. I stepped back, surprised by my level tone. "I can wait," I said. "Those are my terms."

"You're so demanding."

"And you're stubborn." I threw gasoline on my final grade, my life, my heart. "We've been dancing around each other for weeks. I can't see you every day knowing I don't have a chance. If I can't have that, we have to say good-bye here and now." I regretted the words as soon as I said them, praying she wouldn't call my bluff.

"All or nothing," she muttered, pacing. I would not pay to be in her contrary head just then, it was a mindfuck.

Her shoulders slumped. "Okay, okay."

"Six weeks. Then I graduate."

"Six weeks."

We smiled and acted like we did not willfully jail our libidos until the end of the semester.

Six weeks.

I was going to murder someone.

She got in her truck and leaned out the window. "Will I see you tomorrow? I have new mates for Leah and you said you'd help me."

I tapped twice on the hood. "At your service, milady. We still have a virgin to deflower after all."

She gave me that look that said stop being cheeky and barked out a relieved laugh, all her fight having left. That's when I wondered if all women wake up in the morning with the sole intention of ruining a man for sport. This one pushed, but I wasn't worried, not then. I was a man worthy of her, she just needed reminding every day, and I would do that. That was the easy part.

I'd do anything to keep her happy which was why a calmness settled in when I made my decision. All I had to do was go back inside, climb the stairs to Aro's office, and commit. It was for her.

She straightened her shoulders, putting on a stern face. _That's my girl._ She put the gear in reverse and pulled out, but not before delivering a classic Professor Swan line: "Put on a shirt, Edward, before you make someone else swerve into a ditch." She rolled her eyes and peeled out, kicking up dust.

I shook my head and laughed. I had to. She was going to be fun.

* * *

><p>AN:

I love Faireyfan and WriteOnTime for the laughs and colorful commentary this go round, what a joy they are to me. All mistakes were mine.

Sorry for the delay, folks, but I had to re-write this chapter few times. I'll try to pound out the other one a lot faster (twss). Promise.

In the meantime, I'd love to hear from you. Tell me what you think about these two, or just say hi, or tell me what you liked, hated, scratched your head over. I reply back. Nicely, too. Cheers! :)


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

><p><strong>Mating<strong>

* * *

><p>Previously on SOUL…after months of fighting their urges, Professor Swan and Edward experience a drunken night of kissing and groping. For Edward, things escalate quickly. The next day, Bella, in a moment of panic, finds him at the gym and suggests he end his infatuation with her. He negotiates a pause to his courting until the end of the semester:<p>

_"All or nothing," she muttered, pacing. I would not pay to be in her contrary head just then, it was a mindfuck._

_Her shoulders slumped. "Okay, okay."_

_"Six weeks. Then I graduate."_

_"Six weeks."_

_We smiled and acted like we did not willfully jail our libidos until the end of the semester._

_Six weeks._

_I was going to murder someone._

* * *

><p>The next day, and the day after that, we pretended as though our drunken night never happened. I followed Bella's lead and didn't talk about it. We acted like we'd never had the pleasure of skin-to-skin contact, as if shutting down our lust and going about our business would be la-di-da.<p>

But the cat was out of the bag. Our chemistry was off the chart, and there was no denying it. I caught her looking at me when she thought I was preoccupied; small glances that came off as tricks of the imagination to a less observant person. But I had the advantage of shadowing her for three months. She was attracted to me sexually, she had made it clear, and in my quest to make her mine, it was a promising start. I aimed to work the angle.

That she didn't push me away after I confessed my intentions gave me hope. But Hope was a tough emotion to subsist on when Patience, my specialty, was failing me. I struggled to play the part of a platonic friend when I held the knowledge of a star-shaped birthmark on her left breast.

It felt cruel to wait until the end of the semester, but she insisted on staying the course to save face with the university. I had no choice. The situation was driving me insane, as were my friends, who all felt compelled to add their two-cents on my love life.

At Riley's, the whole gang sat at the bar celebrating the beginning of Spring Break.

"Let me get this straight. She finally let you kiss her _and_ dry-hump her on your first date?" said Ben to me.

I cut Emmett a look.

"What did you want me to do? He was in the room when I told Mike."

"You guys are worse than a sewing circle," I told them.

"Don't worry about me. I'll take it to my grave," promised Mike, hand over heart, like a Boy Scout. We all turned our heads toward Ben.

"What? I just found out. Who would I tell?"

"Popped your nut before you could tango, eh, young Cullen?"

"Marcus. So what now? The whole bar knows?"

Marcus pulled up a stool. When he got deep in his cups, he liked to either write in his corner like a misanthrope or talk your ear off. Such was my luck, he was in the mood for the latter. "It happens to everyone, son. Young Ben and I were chatting in the men's room. Do not begrudge friends who want to help."

"Jesus."

Help. That's what they called placing bets on how long Bella and I would hold out. Emmett, inspired by my newfound aggressiveness, was overconfident at two weeks. "I like this side of you," he said. "I knew you had Mr. Nasty in you."

On the other hand, Mike thought my inexperience worked against me, especially with an older woman. Maybe she was testing me, he ventured, maybe she liked the chase. And Ben, he chalked it up to the go-to excuse guys my age deal in. "She's playing games, Cullen. Every woman does it, it's in their DNA."

With that kind of advice, I motioned to the bartender he should cut my friends off.

In the end, only one person made any sense, which came as no surprise.

"You guys are dense," said Rose, disgusted with the conversation she was an accidental party to. To Ben and Mike she spoke slowly as if to children. "You need to call your mothers and ask if you weren't dropped on your heads at birth." Then she turned her elegant blonde head to my curmudgeon of a mentor. "I'm sorry, Marcus, is it?"

Rose, who had landed in the great city of Tallahassee that morning with the poise and outfit that screamed young, urban professional, had demanded that Emmett and I give her a tour of our country bumpkin scene. Tally was no upstate New York, but Rose didn't want to be impressed, she wanted to be entertained. Cut the tourist crap, she had said, she wanted local color.

So Emmett and I, perhaps dumbly, drove her to the first place that came to mind.

She sat through our talk with the skepticism of an atheist walking into church. Marcus had gone off on a long, crude rant about man's sexual prowess, "You have to mount her like an animal."

Rose had heard enough. "You may be my friend's professor, but your assessment of what women want is full of shit."

Marcus gave her the full measure of his bleary stare, half-expecting, I suppose, backpedaling on her behalf. But Rose had years to hone the steely countenance that intimidated high school boys, not even the hardened Marcus was immune. Sensing that he had underestimated her, Marcus sank into his seat like a grump who decided that disturbing the hornets' nest was more trouble than it was worth. He shrugged and surrendered without a fight. "She's a live one, boys," he muttered before sulking into his whiskey.

Emmett, tolerant of Marcus' grandstanding, had shown obvious impatience with his drunken ramblings. It struck me how different, almost gentle, Emmett became around Rose. He leaned in and urged her on, "Don't hold back." The blush at the tips of her ears, a sight I hadn't seen since her boy band days, said more than words. It told me the hours Emmett spent on the phone with her had made them closer, they had the sort of familiarity that explained why their hug at the airport lingered.

Rose turned to me. "Bella is not playing games, not at her age, not with her life. A young guy, a student, even, comes sniffing around and how do you expect her to act? Of course she's retreating. No offense, but you can be intense when you go after what you want. Give her time to sort it out. She'll come around."

We grew silent. Rose sipped on a vodka soda with a satisfied smile. "Besides, if she hasn't pushed you away so far, it's only a matter of time." She slid a ten-dollar bill toward Ben. "I give them 'til the end of the week."

* * *

><p>"Were you dead?"<p>

"If I was, you brought me back," I replied, trying to wake up. I was too groggy to know what I was saying, and to whom I was saying it. It was one-thirty in the morning and I was slowly waking from a dream that was quickly fading away. I pulled the phone away from my ear. I did not remember answering it. Five missed calls. All from Bella.

"I envy people who can sleep deeply," she said as if in mid-conversation.

"This is a good time of night to try it." I stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. While I was happy to hear her voice, I was too exhausted from a long day of work to entertain the fantasy that she was calling me for romantic reasons. "Why do I have a feeling this is not a social call?"

"How do you feel about breaking and entering?"

"Do I want to know?" I said, finding the cleanest pair of jeans I owned. As it was when Bella was in professor mode, you could expect a call from her at any hour of the day with a new lead or breakthrough (amazing how many tiny discoveries have to be made before a true eureka hits).

She had received a call. Another spider-loving compadre had observed a black widow virgin in his area. It would be the third known in existence, but unlike Bella's black widows, his lived in the wild. He had heard of her work and faxed her his findings earlier in the day.

"Dr. Henry. I met him at a conference once. A short fellow with an unfortunate lisp, poor man. He's recorded similar observations as we have about Leah and Emily, but for the one difference."

I yawned. "What's that?"

"The vastly diverse habitats between our specimens. I need to check his images against mine. I need access to the electron microscope on campus."

"Right now?"

"No time like the present. Besides, I don't want to go through Vanderlay for the key. He's liable to make me wait days, the boar."

"I suppose if I don't go, you'll find another way."

"I don't want to wake Angela."

"I'm honored." I located my keys and checked my wallet. "Bring bail money," I said.

"We won't need it. I'll take care of you," she responded before she could take it back.

Maybe it was the timing of the call, in the middle of the night like it held promise for something more, or maybe it was her teasing, but it made me feel good, bold. "Remains to be seen. I'll be there in half-an-hour."

I met her on her porch as she was locking up. Bacon whined behind the door.

"I'll be back, scaredy cat." She wore a baggy sweatshirt emblazoned with Chief Osceola over a pair of black yoga pants.

"You pass for a student in that," I said, not hiding my approval.

"We're going to campus during off hours, I better look like I belong there."

The sweater barely covered her ass. She cleared her throat, gaining my attention. I watched her swallow like she was suddenly unsure of her bright idea to sneak away with me in the middle of the night.

Before I could make our situation any more awkward, I pointed to the book bag at her side. "What's in there?"

"Tools to hide the body," she said, recovering with her standard cheekiness. She slung the backpack over a shoulder and skipped down the steps as if eager to treat our late-night rendezvous like any other outing. "Actually, they're just slides. We should get a move on."

"Consider the subject dropped."

We parked two blocks away from the science building. I could say that it was a Mission Impossible, hearts racing type of break-in but it was a science lab, not Fort Knox. The janitorial shift worked late at night, but they had left hours ago.

Campus security, on the other hand, circled the grounds all night. I was her lookout. The fewer questions to answer, the better. We accessed the building with her faculty key card. The real trick was breaking into Vanderlay's office and finding his key to the lab with the electron microscope. Not a challenge given how efficiently Bella picked the lock to his office with a hairpin, like a professional cat burglar. (Later, she would confess it was a simple matter of an Internet search.) We found the key glinting in the dark on a stack of fly-fishing magazines like a tiny beacon.

The microscope, white and shaped like a small silo, towered five feet above the desk on which it sat. Bella powered it on, then slid the images out of her backpack and placed one under the lens. "This imaging focuses in on everything," she said.

"What are you looking for?"

"Hair. Chemosensitive hairs, to be exact. There has to be a disparity between Leah and the specimen in Guatemala."

"Guatemala?" It hadn't occurred to me the third black widow would come from so far away.

"Hmmhmm. That's where this little one is from."

She had already tuned me out, distracted by the images on the screen. She magnified on different parts of the spider's body while muttering her own brand of humor. "Come out, come out with your tarsi up."

I wandered among the rows of specimens. I tapped on a glass enclosure filled with busy ants. It looked like a kid's first ant farm. The label listed the name of the study and its owner, 'Vanderlay'. What would happen if I let them free to scatter outside?

"Bella?"

She hummed.

"Have you ever thought about releasing Leah?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Instead of studying her in captivity, you let her out, see if her mate comes after her. Open up the dating pool."

"I won't risk something happening to her again. Have you forgotten I had to save her from the clutches of a developer in Louisiana?"

The soft whirr of the microscope gave way to the sound of a printer starting up. Bella was loading paper into the tray. "Besides, it might not be necessary." She called me over. On the screen, we viewed the underside of the Guatemalan black widow. The hairs on its body magnified to the point of large spikes. "What am I looking at?"

"Evidence that this creature once released pheromones onto her web, you can tell by the way the hair near her spinneret leans sideways. Leah and Emily, on the other hand, have shown no indication of ever doing this. They're not releasing pheromones at all." She rubbed her temples with her fingers. "Too many questions," she said. "But, still, very exciting. I have to call my colleague and discuss. This is, this is just wonderful, Mr. Cullen. Let me print this out and we'll be on our way."

I poked my head into the hallway. It was quiet but for the machines behind me. Then I heard footfalls squeak across the corridor. A flashlight shined on the wall in front of me. I backed inside and turned off the lights, locking us in.

"Someone's coming. Shut it off."

"I'm almost done," she said, alarmed.

Working from the glow of the monitor, she turned off the microscope and printer, snatching the last image from its tray and shoving it into her bag.

The air went silent. We waited for the footsteps to pass, our backs pressed beside the door. Not ten seconds passed, but it felt like minutes.

"I thought you said no one was going to be here," I whispered.

"There's some valuable research being conducted in this building. Maybe they've added extra security." She shrugged.

We waited until we heard a steel door groan shut at the end of the hallway leading into the next wing.

I threaded my fingers with hers and tugged her to me. I opened the door, checked the coast was clear, and sprinted to a side exit at the opposite end of the building.

Outside, we hit a sheet of rain. "These can't get wet," she said, clutching her backpack. I grabbed it and stuffed it under my jacket.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't answer. I turned around and motioned for her to hop on. She hesitated for a second, but eventually pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, and leapt on my back. I ran across the lawn carrying Bella, one hand under her knees and the other protecting her treasured research. I maneuvered around puddles, guided by the orange glow of the street lamps. The rain came down like needles. She gripped me tighter. We laughed all the way to the car.

* * *

><p>Back at her place, we changed into dry clothes. Ever since she allowed me an office, I kept a modest wardrobe in her home for moments between the gym and her place. I had made myself comfortable in sweats and a t-shirt while we brainstormed in her home lab. It was where she kept Leah and Emily. They flickered around in an empty plastic container once used for packs of Twizzlers. A pocket-sized camera mounted on one corner recorded their movements 247, tracking all of their suitors' failed mating attempts.

It was three o'clock in the morning and I sat on a couch, struggling to keep my eyes open while she paced, theorizing out loud, in a sort of jazzy stream-of-consciousness. It was impressive how her mind worked, precise and nimble, focused, the very opposite of my state. I was warm, and comfortable, and too tired to contribute anything of value. I closed my eyes, just for a second, I told myself. I snuggled into the couch and trailed off.

I woke up to a rooster crowing from over the fields. A quilt blanket covered me. Bella sat in her chair, watching me with a curious expression that dissolved once I roused. In its place was a pleasantly neutral face. In her hand, she held a steaming mug of coffee. It read, "Arachnologists do it better." She handed it to me.

"Hi, sleepy head."

I croaked out a good morning. "What time is it?"

"Six."

"Sorry I passed out on you."

"You apologize too much. I'm the one who's sorry for forcing you out of bed and putting you in danger."

"We weren't in danger," I said. I sent a prayer to the coffee gods for the headiness that followed the first sip of caffeine. "Did you call your contact in Guatemala?"

She clinked my cup with hers. A spark of excitement lit her up from within. "He thinks the answer is in their silk. I told him I checked, but given what we've seen, I have no option but to listen to him." She slouched, suddenly moving between enthusiasm and self-doubt without so much as taking a breath. "Maybe my approach was off."

She went on about their conversation, but I stopped listening. The room was warm and there we were, newly wakened, and sipping coffee in loungewear – for Bella, the ubiquitous black skirt and an untucked t-shirt while barefoot _was_ loungewear.

I couldn't help notice the intimacy of the moment, in large part to the sly presence of my morning wood.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You're radiant when you get like this," I said.

"Oh."

We spent a few minutes in silence, then it hit me. "When do you leave for Guatemala?" I asked, masking a crushing disappointment that threatened to make me reckless.

It was impossible to miss the regret on her face and I knew. I put down my cup. We had reached the end of our dallying.

"It won't be for a while yet. I have my own research here." Her chest rose and fell under her thin white shirt. She swallowed. "I will miss you." The looming deadline of her exit from my life forced the issue. The time for euphemisms was over.

"I couldn't have done last night without you," she said softly.

I was tired of waiting for the right time, of letting nature take its course. Nature didn't determine my next move, I did. I pulled her onto my lap and she gave no objections.

"Bella. "

She melted the like end of a sigh. A kiss on my bicep, and the sound of her giving in, she said in a rush of emotion I recognized as resigned lust. "I want you. I'm tired of staying away from you." Without preamble, she kissed me with the same vigor as the previous time. I returned her fervor, basking in the Bella assault plundering my senses. She smelled so good, like cookies and sunshine; I never wanted to let go. She tugged at my shirt, signaling where she wanted to take this outpouring of desire. I wanted to. God, did I want to. My brain threatened to shut off and float on, but the idea of a repeat performance of the other night stopped me. I couldn't rush it again.

I held back.

Bella reacted to my cold feet. "You don't want to," she said, in an almost-question, her face registering confusion and the beginnings of embarrassment.

I shook my head. "Feel this." I placed her hand right where my blood rushed. Her fingers molded around me, squeezing. I sucked in a breath. I put my forehead to hers. I was not going to screw this up. "I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted.

"It feels to me like you do, so very much." She surrounded my face with her hands. "It's been a long time for me, too," she assured. "Don't look so astonished," she said, misinterpreting. "What's the saying? It's like riding a bicycle."

"No, you don't understand. I'm a virgin." I sighed.

A bucket of ice water over her head would have had the same sobering effect. "A what? But why? How is it possible? Is it by choice?"

I nodded, imaging how many more questions ricocheted in that head of hers.

"The other night – "

"I came as fast as I did because I'd never been with a woman before. Not like that. Not like this," I said, my body fully aware of her bottom squirming on my lap. "When you move like that." I groaned.

"It never occurred to me. I thought it was your youthful exuberance. Maybe even a little zeal about the older woman thing."

"That goes without saying."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm a coward, embarrassed. Because of this right here, you, freaking out."

"No, I'm not."

"You're acting like I just stepped on a spider."

She regarded me with a new curiosity. "I guess I'm shocked. I was certain an attractive guy like you would have." She wiggled her bum.

"Too good," I warned.

"Never? Not even touching?" Her palm trailed my chest and lower, pausing at the waistband.

"Second base, but it was a fake boob. Doesn't count."

"How is it possible?" She was showing the sort of interest in me as she did when faced with a new scientific question. "I'm sorry I misunderstood. You seem to know what you're doing sometimes, and I've seen how women look at you."

"You thought my bed was a revolving door."

"Not revolving."

I read her like a book. Her mind worked a mile a minute, she wondered what this meant, what the implications were if she indulged. Behind the sparkling eyes raking over me, she warred with herself. Dare she?

I didn't think I could get more turned on by her obvious appreciation of me.

"And you want me to be your first?" she said.

I nodded.

She paled.

"What's wrong? Tell me, I'm dying here."

"This…it's a big deal for most people," she responded, haltingly.

And here was the rub. I was on delicate ground. If I confessed my heart to her, she would panic, but I couldn't play it off, either. "Sex isn't casual with me, no." I kissed her fingers, and silently wished for my personal philosophy not to cockblock me after having come this far.

I had never doubted that if I were faced with the opportunity to have sex with Bella, I would go through with it, regardless of how she felt about me. I loved her, but she couldn't, or wouldn't say the same. Not yet. And I was okay with that. I had daydreams, but I was a realist. I would wait for her to catch up emotionally.

Nonetheless, I wanted her to be around in the morning. "Is it casual for you?"

She faced me then and said in a rush, "No, of course not. I just hadn't had time to think about it. It's surprising, flattering even, and you're so sweet. I don't want to hurt you."

"B, I'm not talking about making declarations here," I assured her. "I have a beautiful woman on my lap who wants to have sex with me and for once I want to go through with it."

"I just don't know why you'd want me, of all people, to be your first."

A landmine of a statement spoken with deceptive calmness. Was she fishing? I wasn't positive, but she was not ready, and I was not prepared to deliver an answer as long as the story of my life. I had one chance to prove to her I could make it worth her while.

I fanned the residual embers from our earlier fire, and dared to kiss her from shoulder to temple. "Because this feels right," I whispered. "Because I can't get you out of my head," I said before kissing her. "Because you drive me insane, Bella." I traced her lips with my lips and became overwhelmed by the contrast between her feminine form and my awkward maleness. When her eyes reflected trust, and I knew we'd become inevitable, I was moved by a fresh batch of nerves.

"This will change everything," she said, without apprehension. She had made up her mind.

"I hope so." I spread my arms over the back of the couch to disguise my ever-growing anxiety. "I'm all yours. Teach me. I'm a blank slate." Whether she knew it or not, giving it up to her thrilled and terrified me. I was outwardly collected, but I was not succeeding in disguising my nervousness.

She saw through me then, and as if a switch had been flipped, Bella stood and regarded me, spread out on her couch, for all the world like a virgin sacrifice. A calm descended, the sort that came after a decision had been made and fully accepted, anticipated even.

"I'm going to hell," she muttered as if she was planning on enjoying it. "If we're going to do this," she said, resolved, "we're going to do this right." I shuddered, my heart banging away like the little drummer boy.

She guided me through the house, past the living room where her terrariums swayed with life, and up the stairs into her room. A window was open. The curtains were white and gauzy. Outside, the pink light shone on the surface of the fields like the world had been lit on fire.

The door shut behind me. Bella leaned against it, hands behind her back. The position might have suggested the demureness of someone younger, less experienced, but such was not the case, not with that look. She was in charge, she made it clear while sizing me up. It was sexy and arousing.

"Take off my shirt," she ordered. The tremble in her voice was comforting as it betrayed her anticipation. I reached for the hem, "Slowly."

I imagine every instruction I obeyed was executed with the pious devotion of a monk, extra careful, with shaking hands, and eager to please. This did not bother me, did not make me less of a man. I was at her mercy, and I knew this.

At any rate, the pleasure she introduced me to, starting with the unfettered access to her breasts, made up for my self-consciousness. "The clasp is on the front."

I released them and marveled how they spilled, heavy, onto my palms. "These are glorious." I watched Bella's face, one cheek plastered to the door, her bottom lip between her teeth. Her breathing, ragged.

I flicked her nipple, off and on, testing, testing. "You like this," I said, in part as a question and observation. The words left my throat with a low tremble as if it echoed from inside a dark room.

She sucked in air before replying. "I do. They're very sensitive."

"They feel like dough. I don't mean lumpy, firm, actually." I traced the constellation of stars bumping into her nipple. "I've dreamt about this birthmark you have here."

"I could have a third nipple and you'd like it."

"I would if it's on you."

She chuckled at my rapt concentration and stupid rambling. "You're reacting to a male's evolutionary fascination with the mammary glands."

"Stop. Can we put the professor away and bring back Bella?"

"Fine. But, I can't help I view the world in its – " she gasped. So that's what pushing them together looks like. "Natural state, whether human or animal – "

"You're still doing it," I chided, mock irritated. I was oddly fascinated by her reaction to my fondling. A flush spread from chest to shoulders along with a cover of goosebumps. Her tiny gulps of air, her bemusing chatter.

"It's been so long." She stretched out the last word as I handled her breasts like a balance scale, up, down. I rolled them under my palm, so smooth. "You should know," she continued with some effort, "I'm on the pill. Oh, that's good. You're not listening, are you?"

I nodded. She rolled her eyes and felt me lean in. "Can I kiss you now?"

We found our footing then. Not knowing what I was doing, but going for broke, I grasped and squeezed her hips while I kissed her, which was a great way to stop talking because words were caught in my throat like a fish in a net.

I listened. I was good at that. I was born for it. She was teaching me a new language, and I catalogued every groan that shook out of her, every whimper that eked past her lips. By the time our clothes had come off – a trick she managed by distracting me with lips and fingertips skirting across my flesh – we were in bed.

She didn't allow me time to worry about my newbie fumbles. Her strategy was to rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak, in order to clear the air of my awkwardness. She pushed me on to my back with the surety of a vixen.

After a study of what I had to offer, of what had grown purple with anticipation, Bella stalked up my body, and ever so slowly, a shit-eating grin spread across her face.

"I believe I just hit the jackpot, Mr. Cullen." She let me know I was in for it. She placed my hands on her hips and straddled her bicycle.

"How's that?" I choked out, no longer nervous, but swimming in keen anticipation. The dampness between her legs slid slick on my dick. If we didn't hurry, I was going to have a heart attack.

"I am going to love being your teacher." She ground down on me and gasped. "This is going to be quick. Try to hold out, but don't make it a challenge."

She positioned me at her entrance. My fingers were nailed to the mattress, and my stomach was taut. "Breathe, Edward."

I did as she said and two hip-jacking thrusts later, I was no longer a virgin.

What can I say? The mantra is _this is it, this is it, this is it, this is it, _a warm volcanic shudder overwhelms you, shoots you into a limitless stratosphere where there are stars and a few seconds of black out.

It is impossible to romanticize a virgin's first time, to make it loftier than it is, especially if you're a healthy, virile dude pent up with more sexual energy than a nuclear power plant. And even if it can be described, it's only unconditionally meaningful to the couple sharing it. It arrives with awkwardness and the probability of future emotional pain. After all, at no time before in your life are you at your most vulnerable, lying there, naked and shivering in her arms. Safe and happy. Not everyone experiences that level of connection their first time. For most guys, not all, the first time is a throwaway.

Unless you're me.

I opened my eyes and there she was smiling down at me with a look of awe and expectancy. I watched Bella's face dissolve in pleasure like she was sinking into a warm, sudsy bath as my once turgid member grew soft inside of her.

I was over the moon. I hooted and hollered and startled her when I flipped us over and rained kisses all over her in gratitude and love and all the things I could not articulate at that very moment.

She laughed, snorted at my antics, at my dumb apologies for making it all about me. She shushed me, it didn't matter to her, I knew. This one was for me, she said tenderly, but I made a silent promise I would re-pay her for as long as she allowed me in her bed.

"What are you doing the rest of the day?" she asked, with a playfulness I would only witness in the bedroom. I thought about her question, how it always led to the best sort of trouble.

"Does it matter?" I lifted her arms above her head, and rested on my palms as I enjoyed the view. She was like a buffet and I was overwhelmed as to where to begin. I swiveled my hips, suddenly conscious of my greedy John Thomas acting like a heat-seeking missile over his Lady Jane.

"I'm sorry, B." It hadn't been a minute and I was hard again. "Is it always going to be like this?"

She moaned. "Unfortunately, it won't. But that's a long time coming." She writhed, scooting closer to it. "I suggest a comprehensive study of core concepts." I hissed when delicate teeth grazed my nipple. _I had no idea_. "It just so happens, my schedule is wide open," she rambled as she kissed her way further down.

Six weeks of waiting. We didn't last one.

* * *

><p>Author's note:<p>

This is where I apologize for the uber-tardy chapter, isn't it? *Hangs head in shame* I could tell you it was work, life, blah blah blah, but every explanation will sound like an excuse. The good news is that I will post again in three weeks, so there's that, yes? In all seriousness, thanks for coming back and reading, it means a lot to me.

A huge thank you to the ladies who spot my typos, crazy word arrangements, inconsistencies, and the never-ending flaws, lol. Thanks WriteOnTime, Faireyfan, and Notsoimmortal for the kick in the pants. You guys are awesome.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: This is no disclaimer.

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><p>Let Us Sport While We May<p>

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><p>The guy in the mirror stared back at me like a castaway. Two days in bedded bliss, with the exception of showers and sustenance, had left him looking rough. I ran a hand across my scruffy jaw and grinned at the memory of Bella rubbing her cheek on it like a cat scratching an itch. She admitted to loving the bristly feel of it on her skin. To which I responded that girls are weird, but if she wanted me to grow a beard like Grizzly Adams, all she had to do was say the word.<p>

It was Spring Break and while the rest of town had emptied out, Bella and I stayed in, playing house. We turned off our phones and ignored the rest of the world. She meant it when she said we had a lot of practicing to do. We practiced everywhere in the house, on all the furniture. Against the walls. Sometimes twice.

Bella was a born teacher – patient, funny, and devoted to the cause, so much so, that my lover had passed out after a rigorous session that couldn't be helped. (Naked spooning, I would discover, was just a sleepy prequel to rigorous middle-of-the-night sex.) It was a boost to my ego, not because she had declared me a natural, though I did strive to be a straight-A student, but because our lustful exercises challenged her stamina.

It was late morning when my growling stomach forced me out of our nest, and after a relieving leak, I headed downstairs for a snack.

There was nothing but vegetables and Tupperware filled with who-knows-what. I sniffed a dubious looking stew and decided not to test my luck. Resigned to make a grocery run, I climbed the stairs to change. That's when I heard a car pull into the driveway. Bacon ran excitedly to the door, readying a growl.

"Stand down, boy. This one's a friend."

I opened the door to find Emmett placing a box on the porch swing. He reached in, plucked out an apple, and shined it on his shirt.

"Gentleman Ed!" he greeted when he turned around, surprised, but no less pleased to see me. He pointed the apple accusingly. "You're a hard man to find," he chided before taking a bite.

Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorway like we had planned this rendezvous a long time ago and watched him regard my rumpled state openly – unshaven, bare-chested, and glowing with the pride of a caveman long returned from a successful hunt. You would think I had a wooly mammoth at my feet and a woman thrown over my shoulder.

I shrugged then grinned.

He whistled. "Well, well, well," he started slowly, putting the fruit down on the rail. "Welcome to the club?"

A nod.

"Welcome to the club!" he boomed, before startling me with a hug that pulled me inches off the floor.

"Damn, it's like it happened to me. How was it? Did you last? Is she here?" Emmett craned his neck as if Bella was hidden behind me.

I motioned for him to lower his voice and pointed to the window directly above us. "She's asleep."

His eyebrows rose in understanding. "Then it's a good thing I brought replenishments." He handed me the box overflowing with enough munchies to feed a teenage smoke circle. Gatorade, frozen dinners, chips, cakes, and crackers.

"The champagne and strawberries, all that frilly stuff, that wasn't me."

"This is incredible. How did you know?"

He crossed his arms in momentary silence.

"What?" I said, ripping into a box of Pop Tarts.

"It's just," he wiped his eyes of absent tears. "You're all grown up now."

He stumbled on his heel after I landed a solid punch to his shoulder. It was good to see him. I hadn't realized it until he had shown up and I let him know it.

We sat on the porch steps enjoying the warmth of the day, eating and catching up. "Seriously," I said. "How'd you know to bring food? How'd you find me?"

"The way you were going on about your snowflake the other night, I figured there was only one place you'd be. After two days of radio silence, it was time to send in the cavalry."

"You have a hell of a radar for this shit, Em. It's a gift."

"I'm here to serve. Truth is, I would've left you two alone, but Rose insisted. That woman's stubborn as all get out."

At the mention of her, my guilt-level spiked to a new peak. "I'm an ass."

Emmett waved it off. "Don't worry about it. She told me to tell you, you get a pass since you're getting your cherry popped. I'm showing her a good time. Not like that, so get your head out of the gutter for five minutes."

He went on to describe her failed attempts at casting a line into Lake Jackson. From the sound of it, Emmett's efforts to introduce her to the outdoors just ran her back indoors. "She kicks my ass at Scrabble, though. She's also saying she won the bet. She wants you to call it."

"Rose won the bet."

"She'll gloat."

"That she will. Where's she now?"

"Back at the apartment. She's claimed your room, by the way."

"Glad she's made herself at home. Listen, I know I'm a jackass for leaving you to entertain her, but I have a feeling I'm not missed. Am I right? You and Rose?"

I couldn't come out with the rest of it. I had come to terms that there was inevitability about those two, and I was glad for them, but it was like family talking about family.

"You're not going to kill me if I tell you?"

"Jesus, Em. No, but don't make me regret it."

"I'm not interested in getting in her pants."

My jaw dropped. He looked, talked, and walked like Emmett.

He stared straight ahead like he had to get something off his chest. "I know it's hard to believe, but she's more of a friend. We don't have a whole lot in common, but I get her." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd ever meet a girl who's out of my league." He chuckled, finally meeting my eyes, not hiding his respect. "This wait-it-out business. Shit's hard, man. You must be rubbing off on me."

I was speechless. There it was, a shift. I had seen Emmett through the zenith of his skirt-chasing days, accumulating enough stories to fill a book, but the rake who had once dodged a bullet for a quickie with a trailer park cougar now sat beside me like a worn-out Casanova.

Here I was partaking in all sorts of carnal pleasures while my buddy abstained. He'd slowed down to my level just as I was catching up to his.

"How long have you felt this way?"

"I don't know. Since I saw her picture, I guess." He turned sullen. "I have to go back home after graduation. Big Poppa's drinking again, running the family business into the ground, and momma needs me. Anyway, Rose has got her own shit to deal with in New York. I don't have any good options here."

I empathized. A long distance relationship had built-in complications, and while I offered reassurances, I was keenly aware that Bella and I were hostages to a countdown of our own. She would be travelling for research soon, leaving us to deal with the same question of time and distance.

We dropped the subject. It was too depressing for a sunny day, he said. Emmett relayed messages from people I'd been ignoring. Aro and Caius had come by Riley's asking where the hell I was. I was signed on with the Volturi brothers to train and promote me, but no matches had been staged yet. My training regimen had begun and not a week in, I was shirking my duties. I would pay for it once vacation was over, but until then, I didn't want to think about it.

With promises to call them when I came up for air, I sent Emmett on his way.

Bacon's muzzle was in the box of goods in search of a snack. I opened a package of jerky and fed it to him. Poor dog had been neglected, except when it came time to fill his bowl. I sat and rubbed his belly in apology, promising to return his mistress just as soon as the week was over. Back in the kitchen, I put away our bounty and prepared a tray of milk and cookies for my girl.

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><p>I woke to a dark room. It was early evening and the curtains billowed before a steel-colored sky. Bella's side of the bed was empty. I got up, vaguely remembering curling around her as she slept. The saucer was empty of cookies, and there was no milk in the glass.<p>

_Where did you go?_

Downstairs all was dark but for the light in the kitchen. I had a flashback to the first time I lurked in her bushes, except presently, she was wearing the Madagascar robe while rummaging in the refrigerator.

Her ass swayed to music playing out of an old CD player that sat on the windowsill. She had my attention. "What are you doing?"

Bella whipped around and assessed me. "This is a shirt and shoes establishment, Mr. Cullen," she admonished with no bite. This coming from a woman who had less modesty than an African bush queen inside the pages of a National Geographic magazine. After allowing me unrestricted access to her fleshly delights, there was little I hadn't seen of her, and she of me.

I backed her into the counter and unbuttoned my jeans. "I'll just take these off and go back upstairs for my shirt and shoes."

"You're evil. You wouldn't."

I tilted my head. "Be happy I'm wearing pants."

"Oh?"

"I have a thing for the proprietress."

"You charmer, you."

I ran a finger along the crease of her robe and nudged it open. Her wicked little smirk was all the invitation I needed.

Despite our hunger, we couldn't stop groping and grinding in that kitchen, kissing until the world fell to tatters. She did this thing where she dragged her blunt nails all over me, a discovery she took advantage of as it had the power to drive me wild. I was ready to bend her over the counter in a repeat performance but a horrible noise intruded in on the action.

"What are we listening to?"

"You've heard this." She hummed the tune. I shook my head, wishing she wouldn't. She sang it. "_'I was beat, incomplete. I'd been had, I was sad and blue_. _But you made me feel, yeah, you made me feel shiny and new.'_"

"What the hell? 'Like A Virgin'?"

"Too soon?" she snorted.

"You think you're funny, but there goes your boner," I muttered, turning away.

"It's the music of my era. This is what happens when you date an old lady."

"Three things. One, you're not old; two, good music is timeless; three, we can always fix your taste in bad music." I ejected the disc. _80s Dance Mix_. Well, nobody's perfect.

"Oh, don't pout." She tugged on my jeans. "I promise to make it up to you."

"I'm listening."

She revealed a chicken potpie from the oven, showcasing it like Vanna White. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or impressed for failing to notice its aroma. (Adding to my discovery of sex was the fact that it made one deaf and dumb to the rest of the world.) My mouth watered.

"You baked that? How long was I out?"

"All afternoon. Thank you for the cookies, by the way. Now I know how Santa feels."

Bella rifled through the mountain of packaged goods and brandished a Twinkie. "I see your connections have kept us from dying of starvation. Geez, this is all bunker food. Don't take this the wrong way, but has your friend never heard of a vegetable?"

"You heard us?"

She grinned like one in possession of a secret. "He doesn't seem the type to practice his inside voice."

She gestured for me to sit and placed a plate with a hefty portion of potpie on the table. A glass of purple Gatorade followed. "Electrolytes," she said, reading the label on the bottle. "All it is, is sugar and salt, but I can't deny a strange addiction to the stuff. When I was in Africa, drinking water was scarce. We lived off of this."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"What?"

"Emmett was here, he knows."

"Oh," she said, as if it never occurred to her. "I guess it can't be helped that your friends know, now can it? I'm not naïve, but I do expect us to be discreet. You're still a student, and I'm not on good terms with my hosts. Perhaps we don't acknowledge it on campus, yes?"

"I can live with that," I lied.

She sat on my lap and lifted a forkful of pie to my lips. "Besides…open up. Good boy. It lends an air of the forbidden."

"And they say to watch out for the quiet ones."

"We have the most fun."

I shoved the plate away. "I'm tired of talking."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I don't know if I'll ever get enough of you." As if in agreement, my hips pushed up of their own accord.

She pulled away sheepishly. "I'm sore."

"Where? Let me see." I made her stand. She stayed my hand on her Mound of Venus before I could play doctor. "I'm sore down here," she pressed, bemused.

It dawned on me slower than molasses, but when it did, "Damn, B. It's my fault?"

She hugged me. "It's no big deal. I want to, trust me. As a matter of fact, I've never felt this sex-crazed in my life," she said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "But I should probably wait it out."

I adjusted my inconsiderate cock in a futile effort. "I've been living with this condition for years, lady. Don't go doing me any favors," I jested, covering up for my lack of knowledge again.

She leaned in as if she did not want Bacon to overhear. The dog had been watching us all the while. "You know, my mouth can do just as well."

"You don't have to," I stammered stupidly. I had taken to ranking my favorite positions and oral sex hovered near the top.

She caught her hair at the nape of her neck and tied it back. "You'll make it up to me," she winked. Since she insisted on reciprocation, I moaned at the thought of tasting her again.

"Oh, fuck." I held on to the chair for dear life as she disappeared under the belt line. When her lips made contact, I sucked in a breath. A rush of blood drained from the top of my head to my stick.

Goddamn, the things we were doing. Everything we did was erotic and hot, compounded by our isolation, her experience, and our unchecked libidos.

No porn, no books, no advice could prepare me for the real thing. And my imagination, my best asset, it, too, had failed me. And for once, I was grateful.

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><p>Eventually, cabin fever set in, and the following day we packed a lunch. We hiked to Bessie's tree, aptly named after the banana spider she introduced me to, though the original owner had already been washed away in a storm.<p>

Bacon, happy to be the recipient of his mistress' attention once again, ran ahead in chase of creatures large and small, looping back occasionally to sniff out a treat from Bella's pockets.

We picnicked under the shady oak, eating sandwiches and the strawberries that Rose had thoughtfully packed in our box of goods. We were sated and happy, our muscles heavy under the languid afternoon.

My head was in her lap as she raked fingers across my scalp. From my cushy spot I smelled the sweetness of wet earth mixed with the laundered freshness of her black skirt.

I had brought the champagne, and Bella was on her second glass when we got to talking about her exes.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked with a note of caution.

"Sure," I responded casually, though I meant no. Fuzzy with bubbly, I had blurted the question before I could take it back.

"I've had my share of lovers, not a lot, but enough to know what I wanted. They didn't last long."

"Did you love them?"

She shifted under me, and leaned back, propped up on her hands. I missed her touch immediately, afraid I'd crossed a line, and as if she could sense it, she played with my ear absentmindedly. She spoke as if recalling an old life.

I closed my eyes and listened.

"I was in love once, or so I thought. We were both biology majors at UW. I was twenty-four and working on my doctorate. He was thirty and a late starter. Mom and Dad were already dead and I couldn't stay busy enough to forget them. Anyway, he was sweet to me when I was at my loneliest. It was nice to come home to someone after the grueling hours of study. We became comfortable, really. Three years passed when we decided to move in together. Taking the next step, he said.

"What saved me from a making a huge mistake was a call to participate in a study funded by the World Health Organization. I was selected to travel with a group of scientists to observe a tribe in the Congo. It was a dream come true; I didn't even hesitate.

"The study was to last six months. When I told Jake about it, I suggested we postpone moving in together until I returned, but I underestimated his want of a wife. I was shocked when he gave me an ultimatum: him or the trip. I thought he was bluffing. Hell, I didn't even argue.

"The last time I saw Jake was when he drove me to the airport."

"Jake?"

"Jake. Paul. Embry." She met my eyes. "Men I once knew in my life."

"You named Leah's suitors after your ex-boyfriends?"

"I never said I was original."

"Your troop of male lovers."

"I didn't date them all at once, you know."

"Touché. Let's get back to Jake." I was delighted that he was out of the picture, but another part was decidedly curious as to how her ex got the boot.

"There's not much more to it. When I boarded the plane, I should have been sad, but I wasn't. I was too thrilled for guilt. What a red flag! I think we both knew that my leaving would not stand the test of time. I was at the beginning of my career, and so excited about the trip, I practically asked to break up. I wasn't ready to be anyone's wife."

She put her lips around the frown I did not realize I was wearing. "This is not the same thing," she whispered.

"What is it then?"

"I don't know," she replied, honestly.

The alcohol, the sun, her confession, it swirled and threatened to dissolve my happiness. Rationally, I expected her to have a _past_, but Bella not knowing what she wanted, that gave me pause. It was a stinging reminder that this could very well be temporary.

"Tell me about the Congo."

To her credit, she noted my change in subject, and with a lingering look that said we would talk about _us_ later, she continued.

"There was a report of a newly discovered tribe, the Tutties. They lived in relative isolation until the Congolese government bumped into them. It had the anthropologists in our group in a tizzy, like they'd won the lottery. The Tutties' population was dying off at a rapid rate, and by the time we arrived, only a quarter of their initial population remained.

"Early theories attributed it to famine, but it didn't add up. They existed in a remote yet fertile stretch of land, probably the only land the Congolese government had not raped for its resources. And then there was the question of their males. They were disappearing, but why? So the organization sent us to investigate.

"After days of traveling, we arrived in Kinshasa, the capital. Nothing reminds you how well you have it when all of your daily conveniences are blown to smithereens. Cell service? Medicine? Adequate drinking water? Sure, if you remained in the clamor of the city, but our mission was due north into the jungle. Our final leg required us to traverse by a motorized canoe. When we got there, what we found was very interesting.

"Behind their huts, where the tribe planted their potato and cassava, the ground was covered in acres upon acres of gauzy spider webs. It didn't take long to for me to find him. Harry."

"Harry?"

"I found him, I named him. A spider of the Agelenopsis genus, your atypical grass spider. The problem with the Harry spider is that he's a funnel weaver, and his web looks like what cotton candy appears to you and me, which is to say, appetizing. Its webbing, you see, is a remarkable shade of pink.

"The Tutti women had taken to harvesting the web and dissolving it in hot water, a unique characteristic of this spider's silk. They made tea. They drank the tea. It had medicinal properties."

"Like what?"

She grinned. "Dysmenorrhea."

"Is that like, the shits?"

She barked out a laugh. "No! Menstrual cramps. It is an exceedingly effective reprieve from Aunt Flo."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. One sip of this stuff and poof, it goes away for the duration of your cycle. The discovery of this would have had a huge implication in western culture. But alas."

"Alas."

"You see, as a matriarchal tribe, the Harry is valued. Honored, even. But harvesting their webs means destroying their homes, and eradicating them at astounding levels. The Harry spiders not only help women with their monthly, but they are effective as all spiders are wont to be. The Harry eats bugs and protects plants. But no Harry spider, means no crops. Indeed, famine was a consequence of this. A cruel cycle.

"It took months before we could convince the tribe to harvest with discretion. They had not realized they were grounding their ecosystem and devastating their food source. Naturally, they distrusted us.

"There I was, young, white, and ferried into their village to tell them how to change their lives. We worked on gaining their trust. With a lot of patience and coaxing we managed to relocate the spider population away from their crops, leaving only what was necessary for web cultivation and for the Harry to do his natural spider deed. We even flew in an herbalist who found an alternative method of alleviating menstrual pain.

"We planted, and vegetables grew again. It was hard work but we left knowing we did the best we could with the least amount of disruption. And as for me, well, Harry remains my greatest discovery."

"You're incredible."

"That's not what Jake thought when I returned. I developed a reputation as 'The Spider Lady', not a big deal, except you would think I had gone crazy in the jungle and become the self-proclaimed queen of spiders. What hogwash.

"News of our work travelled quickly. I became the star of the biology department, but given my age and gender, I was also an upstart."

"So that's how it started."

She nodded. "Not all of my colleagues subscribed to petty rivalries and jealousy, most were encouraging and valued my contributions. I am proud of that to this day. But a few couldn't stand for a young girl making a name for herself in a male-dominated field. It was hard for them to swallow, especially when my projects were funded over theirs."

"And Jake?"

"If I had to guess why he didn't sit at home waiting for me, it was the news that I was nearly wedded to one of the Tutties. I could have lied and made it out to be just another ridiculous story to spare him embarrassment, but I'm a terrible liar."

"There's always a catch." I regarded her, sitting there with a smile on her face. "Okay, I'll bite."

"As a thank you for my efforts, the Tutti women tried to marry me off to their best hunter. Since men were scarce, this was meant as a great honor. We had found that they were disappearing because many had left in search of food for their families. Away from the security of their tribe, they became victims of the civil war, forced to join as soldiers or worse. Few returned.

"As for the wedding, I had little choice in the matter, and neither the groom-to-be nor I were interested, but declining would have upset other aspects of the research. I had colleagues urging me to go through with it!

"The night before the wedding, my fiancé – a boy no older than sixteen – smuggled me out of the village under the cover of darkness. He gave me Peter Parkerus as a parting gift. I'll always be indebted to him. I am not welcomed back. Almost ruined the expedition, frankly."

"It's never boring with you."

"You wouldn't have it any other way."

If only she knew how right she was.

* * *

><p>Later that day, we took a hot bath. She sat between my legs, humming while I trickled water over her wet mane. I was transfixed by the dark eel it created down her back.<p>

I broached the subject we'd both been avoiding. "What happens now?"

"We work. We live." She turned her head and blew suds on my face. "We play."

"You know what I mean."

We had not talked about her trip, no plans had been made yet, but it was coming. While I had begun my courtship with the surety of a lion after his prey, suddenly I had real pangs of doubt. I felt no more fortunate than the luckless-in-love Emmett.

"When you go, how long will it be for?"

"Months, I don't know how many. I have to set up the study."

She leaned into me, resignedly. Her words were measured and emotionless. I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

"You should use the time to…to explore your options. You're too good to be wrapped up with me."

"How can you say that after the last few days?"

"I can't expect you to wait. You're young, impressionable. You'll change your mind."

"If I could will myself to be older and more mature for you, I would. But I'm not the kid you think I am. I swear, Bella, if we weren't in this tub, I'd shake you."

I jiggled her around in the slippery tub, causing her to giggle more than anything, but the playfulness was short-lived.

She pulled forward as if to collect her thoughts.

"Aren't you happy?" I asked.

"Very much. I've never met anyone like you."

"But?"

"There's more to this than you say." Leave it up to Bella to cut right to the heart of the matter.

"Listen – "

"No, let me get this out before I lose the nerve. I like you, a lot. More than I care to admit. It's not just the sex, although, it is incredible. You make me lose all reason when we're together. But I don't know what I'm doing. I just don't know if I'm capable of…you know."

"The four letter word," I said.

"Oh, you know."

"Let me help. It begins with an 'L'"

"Love. Love! I'm not afraid to say it," she insisted with false bravado. "See? Love, love, love. La-la-la."

"Music to my ears."

"Don't be a dunce."

"Don't be a killjoy."

I could feel her rolling her eyes, but I knew better than to lay all my cards on the table.

"You're putting the cart before the horse. What are you worried about, that I'll disappoint like your ex-boyfriends?"

Her silence told me this was so.

I rested my forehead in the middle of her back, because loving her was exhausting. One minute we were two peas in a pod, and the next she was trying to push me away. She was incapable of making it easy.

I caged her soft body in my arms, and contrary to her words, she gave me no resistance.

I kissed her temple feeling brave like I always did when she let me hold her. "I appreciate you trying to protect me, but I don't think this is about me hooking up with other girls."

She bent her knees, and my hand took it as an invitation to trail down her creamy thighs.

"Are you afraid of falling in love with me, Bella? Maybe I could make you so happy, you won't know which way is up."

"You're terribly cocky."

I laughed, poking her from behind.

"Strike that horrible pun from the record." She gasped when my fingers played in her fur. "This isn't just about sex, Edward."

"I know. But we can talk about it all you want. We can define it, or we can wait and see what happens. Do you trust me?"

Immersed in the pleasure taken from my ministrations, she turned her face toward mine, her eyes pleading with me for what? Understanding? Patience? Release?

I wished I had the right answers, that I could see into the future. But I couldn't.

I asked her again. "Do you trust me?"

She nodded in spite of herself. Water sloshed over the side of the tub.

"No more talk about me being with anyone else. Just be in the moment, that's all I ask. I don't care how long it takes for you to come around. I'll wait. You're worth it, B."

I kissed her and gripped her as she shuddered from her shoulders, before she could slide under a blanket of suds.

* * *

><p>That night we made love with the windows open, the air smelling vaguely of thunder.<p>

When I rocked inside her it wasn't with the moves she had taught me, so much as my own visceral need to show her love even if she wasn't ready to accept it. And near the end, when she put her hand on my face and pulled me in for a wild kiss fraught with teeth and tongue, I drove us home until we had forgotten our names, and she went limp inside the circle of my arms.

Once her breathing had evened out, and she was in the land of dreams, I kissed the one hand reaching out to me as she lay on her side, and placed it over my heart.

I couldn't sleep. Our uninterrupted bliss had come to an end. Tomorrow we returned to the real world, and I was anxious about what awaited us outside our bubble.

How much time did we have? How did two people hold on while being apart? For all her softness, I knew that Bella would fare better alone than I would. She had managed on her own before, that was the point of her story. Nothing, no one, could make her reach the level of ecstasy that was her work.

I had no intention of holding her back like Jake. All I could hope for was to be a constant in her life until she had to leave and then take things from there.

Time, as always, was my nemesis.

I drifted off to sleep with last thoughts of the Appalachian Trail. I remembered the time when Emmett and I had reached a crevasse as wide as a door. It plunged fifty feet below into a river that cut through the valley.

Some people attempted the jump, and others opted for the detour.

A running start and a decent leap would get an adult to the other side. It was easy enough to clear if you didn't think too long about it, if you did it before the fear paralyzed you.

I told myself that what Bella felt for me was similar to standing on that ledge, not knowing if it was safe, if the leap would seep the courage right out of her as the fall came into view.

* * *

><p>AN:

WriteOnTime, Faireyfan, and NotSoImmortal are so fantastic, it's cray. They make me smile hard.

So how about a review? I'm not ashamed to ask. I ain't stuck up, it's the only form of reciprocation as reader and writer that we'll have, so tell me what worked for you or what didn't. Or just say hi. It's always good to hear from you. Cheers and thanks for reading!


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